In Light of Silver Memories
by Taliath
Summary: Dumbledore's portrait wakes up at last to have one final chat with Harry. In order to aid the teen in his quest to destroy the Horcruxes, Dumbledore transfers his knowledge, wisdom, and experience. This chat will have unforeseen consequences in the war.
1. Prologue: The Pensieve

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**In Light of Silver Memories**

_**by Taliath** _

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**Author's Note:**

I'm writing this _very_ short fic in order to enter it into the _Fanfiction Writers' Guild: Summer Horcrux Challenge_. More details in my profile. It will be split into four sections—the prologue and three chapter parts. I hope you will enjoy it.

As for the Disclaimer: I own nothing written in this fiction. All of this is copyrighted and owned by J.K. Rowling.

Please remember that this story has Order of the Phoenix and Half-Blood Prince spoilers, so if you have not read the official fifth and sixth Harry Potter books, I recommend you go read them _first!_ Also, be forewarned that there is some _mild_ cursing within the story. Furthermore, there will be quite graphic description in this story. You have been warned. If you are offended by swear words, vivid descriptions of violent events, or just plain anything... please leave now!

If you have any question or comments, please post it in a review, or you may email me. It's _always_ a joy to read about what my readers think! Reviews will always be welcome!

Finally, I owe a massive thanks to my wonderful beta-reader, Jamc91. Without your help, I would never have gotten this far. Thank you!

Enjoy!

**Summary:**

Dumbledore's portrait wakes up at last to have one final chat with Harry--a chat which may have unforeseen consequences in the Second War.

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**_Prologue:_ The Pensieve**

It was a dark and stormy night.

Harry was finally ready.

He sat, silent and still, before the portrait of the man who had been known as the greatest wizard within the twentieth century, and nodded at last.

"I'm ready, sir."

Albus Dumbledore stared down at Harry intently, and Harry met his striking blue eyes with confidence. He had thought, and pondered, and weighed the concerns—and decided. He would do it.

"You must be utterly willing, Harry. If even a spark of uncertainty were to remain—"

"I understand, Professor," said Harry, his voice filled with determination. "You know I've thought long and hard about this. I—well, I have to do this. It's the only way, like you've said. I've made my choice. I'm going to do it."

Again there was a moment of silence, before finally Dumbledore nodded. "Very well, then, Harry. You know what to do."

"I do, sir."

"Then may Merlin keep you safe, my boy. Good luck."

Harry rose. "Thank you, Professor." He drew out his wand as he moved over to one of the many cabinets surrounding the Headmaster's — Headmistress's — office, and muttered a spell under his breath. One of the cabinets swung open on silent hinges.

Inside laid a Pensieve. Dumbledore's Pensieve.

He drew in a shaky breath as he stepped closer towards it with a thousand thoughts spiralling within his mind: doubts, fears, and wariness. What the hell was he doing? But below the surface storm of emotions lay a rock-hard, strong-as-steel determination. He _would_ succeed. He _would_.

"Harry?" called out Dumbledore from behind him. Harry turned and looked at the man inquisitively. His green eyes met the Headmaster's, and he was surprised to find a tear leaking out from the corner of the portrait-Dumbledore's eyes. Sad blue eyes, void of their usual twinkle, stared down at him. "I'm so sorry, Harry. I am so sorry you have to do this."

Harry forced himself to give a slight smile for the man's sake, though he didn't think he fooled his mentor. "Don't worry about it, Professor. I'm used to this sort of thing." That didn't seem to convince the Headmaster, who only bowed his head with sadness. "Sir," tried Harry again, "it's going to be all right. This ritual will work—and I _am_ willing. Really, I am."

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Go, Harry, do what you must. Go with this old man's blessing, my boy. You have been like a grandchild to me, Harry, and I care most deeply about you. Be safe."

Harry didn't know what to say to that. "I—I, thank you, Professor. I… I don't know what to say—"

Dumbledore only smiled. "Then don't say anything, Harry, and remember me kindly. You know this portrait will be gone when you wake. Remember me, Harry; please remember me not in a harsh light, but as one who loved you dearly. I am sorry for what I've done to you. But now, the time has past and been long gone, far too late for apologies. Go now, Harry. And remember."

Harry nodded solemnly. Yes, the professor had placed Harry in a horrible environment, he had tried to exclude Harry so many times in the past, had kept many secrets—but could he fault the man for doing it out of his love for Harry? No. The road to hell was paved with good intentions, but good intentions they were nevertheless. So he just nodded, and turned around to face the Pensieve once more. But this time there was a distinct lack of panic; gone was the maelstrom of emotions clouding his rationality. There was only determination, mulish stubbornness, and the will to succeed.

_Here we go_, thought Harry, and he drew in a deep breath. _I'm ready_.

He pointed his wand at the Pensieve and levitated it towards the floor. Then he jerkily, and with inexpert movements, cast Privacy wards around the already formidable wards surrounding the office, and drew in another deep breath. His heart was racing from anticipation—so much so that he had to force himself to breathe more calmly and relax.

Another deep breath, a split second of preparation, then Harry dived deeper into his mind than he usually ever went. Occlumency, what rudimentary skills he possessed, he used as best he could. He cleared his mind and attempted to enter the trance necessary to complete this task of utmost importance. He _would_ succeed.

Then he was ready at last.

Although all conscious thought disappeared from Harry's mind, there was on a subconscious level still some control left, and tendrils of his will drew forth the words of the spell he needed to cast—a very powerful spell—and yet still keep his trance in place; without ever his conscious self needing to waken. He _would _succeed.

Then the words came together and floated and washed along the emptiness of his mind. Five words of power whispered from the corners of the void of his thoughts, and on the deepest level of consciousness untouched by the trance, Harry knew he was ready.

These five words would change Harry's life forever. The change they would bring would be forever irreversible, he knew.

There was a split moment, a split instant wherein Harry could have still pulled away from the trance and cancelled whatever he had been about to do safely and without retribution—

But that split second passed without even a moment of consideration on Harry's part. He was ready. He would succeed. He was determined.

He mentally spoke the five words, adding will and magic to his mental voice—

—and they thundered across his mind, reverberating within the vast emptiness of his thoughts.

_Memoria exsisto colligo fieri una_.

The words bounced and thundered: MEMORIA EXSISTO COLLIGO FIERI UNA.

And a third time they rolled back onto Harry: _MEMORIA EXSISTO COLLIGO FIERI UNA_.

Then Harry's trance shattered and his eyes snapped open just in time to see the Pensieve on the floor just before him explode, and the silvery memory broil and churn as it fountained up in a shower of sheer madness—

Harry jerked as the silver liquid of the Pensieve swung around in a continuous stream that spun and spun around Harry, in a web of silver light that _still_ broiled and churned even as it spun with elegance and in beautiful streams.

Then the web constricted, and drew together ever more, and split into increasingly slender threads. It was an intricate, organised mess. Harry watched with wide eyes as the threads drew nearer and nearer, and when they were a hair's breadth away from touching him, the silvery web froze. Harry shook from fear, from the unknown, but narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He would succeed. He was ready.

"_Memoria exsisto colligo fieri una_," whispered Harry, and closed his eyes.

He was willing.

The silver constricted, and Harry could feel the cool substance touching his skin—then he felt the substance enter right _through_ his skin. He couldn't help but gasp when he felt his mind being invaded, and clenched his fists to prevent himself from automatically rejecting the foreigner in his mind.

He was willing.

Memories began to pile on memories. Thoughts that were not his own merged with his consciousness. Silver and silver poured continuously and seemingly unendingly into his mind, and Harry groaned from the effort to keep himself opened to the flow.

He was willing.

Harry began to lose track of time, of the environment around him. He wasn't aware of his breathing, or his tightly clenched fists, or his erratic heartbeat. He didn't notice the gleam of sweat glistening as it rolled down his forehead. He was completely unaware of the fact that his eyes were open and staring blankly up at the ceiling. He didn't realise his mouth was hanging open and that moans escaped from it every now and then.

Reality swirled and disappeared around him as alien memory after memory merged into his own. He was completely swamped as he relived his life, and as he relived Albus Dumbledore's life. He was crying, tears falling from his eyes, yet he was unaware of them.

He was Harry Potter, eight years old, being chased around by Dudley and his friends. He was Albus Dumbledore, buying his first wand, and grinning with goofy happiness. He was Harry Potter, looking in sadly as the Dursleys enjoyed Christmas morning opening gifts—he was Albus Dumbledore, breezing through his NEWTs with little to no trouble. He was—

—he was unaware of the portrait of Dumbledore staring down at him with concern. He didn't realise that Dumbledore was preparing himself, preparing to sacrifice his last presence in the living world. He had no clue that Dumbledore was about to release his last grip on the world as a portrait—entitled to him as a former Headmaster of Hogwarts—

—and he was oblivious to the last words of Albus Dumbledore: "You will do well, Harry. I believe in you. _Memoria exsisto colligo fieri una_."

With that, the portrait image of Dumbledore began to fade as the essence captured within the portrait released itself, and flowed to join the silver stream entering Harry's mind.

And Harry continued to be oblivious, to be unaware and within a nearly comatose state. He assimilated memory after memory. His mind trembled at times from the strain, shuddered as it fought to remain open, yet below the chaos and the toil of the merging lay a determination for success that was the core foundation, unparalleled by the struggles above.

For perhaps hours, or even days, Harry was within this state. Lost in the realms of memories, lost to the reality around him. He did not know how long this lasted, nor did he particularly care. But there were no breaks, no pauses in the stream of memories, no rest to recover.

On the fourth day, Harry's mind finally collapsed, and gave way sleep and oblivion. On the fourth day, an instant before his mind lost consciousness, the spell ended. On the fourth day, Harry Potter finally gained the wisdom, knowledge, and experience necessary to match the Dark Lord Voldemort.

He would be ready. He would be determined. And he _would_ succeed.

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**_To be continued…._**

_Part One: _Wisdom, Knowledge, and Experience_ will be updated very soon, but reviews help really encourage me to write! So take the hint, spend a minute, and _review!_ A simple, "Wonderful!" or a "Love it!" will do! Even simple messages like that inspire authors to write more! _

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**Ending Notes:**

As I said above, I'm only writing this to enter it into a contest. It'll be extremely short—about 20,000 words. I have to finish it by September the second, this year. Afterwards, I'll continue Young Again: The Rewrite.

Yeah, I'm not giving up on it—not at all. Rather, I'd like to win the cash award, and so I'm reluctantly holding off on writing the next chapter for YAR until after this contest. But I do have about 6,000 words written, and it's posted on my LJ for those interested. And I am just as excited about writing for YAR as I was in the beginning. I can't wait to get started on it again.

If you want more information on this contest, visit my profile, which explains it in a bit more detail that these notes. I'll post the next part as soon as my beta is done with it.

I plan to have twelve to thirteen scenes. The next part will feature the next three. I hope you enjoy them all. Tell me, honestly, what you think of it! Thanks!

Read the "_To be continued…."_ section for the date of the next upload. Happy **_reviewing!_**

Comments always welcome.

_-- liath_

! Updated 8.26.06 !

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	2. PartI: Wisdom, Knowledge, and Experience

**_Part One: _Wisdom, Knowledge, and Experience**

_by Taliath_

When Harry woke up, he felt like a new person. And in a way, he supposed he was. He could almost physically feel the fullness of his mind, he could sense the difference within the way he thought, processed information—and—and—

And he felt like he had finally opened his eyes. It was… simply _unbelievable_. The knowledge he possessed now—it felt as though he had gone from the mentality of a pre-schooler, just starting to learn the alphabet, to a graduating senior, knowing all about maths and science and history and—and _everything!_

Now even as Harry's eyes scanned Dumbledore's office, he felt a strange—not necessarily disturbing nor unpleasant, but _strange_—feeling wash over him as he recognised exactly what each tool and figurine on the shelves did what. It was odd, for a part of him had already touched them and had known of their existence for a long time, yet another part felt like he was just discovering their marvels. It was _delightful_. It was as though he were rediscovering things he had long forgotten.

The office no longer felt mysterious and odd, but rather it felt like he was home. He smiled with amusement when he saw his old Put-Outer, the one he had used long ago in Privet Drive. His old friend, the Sorting Hat, still sat where he was supposed to be. And the sword of Gryffindor was in a case just beyond the shelves, where he had left it after his encounter with the basilisk.

Harry simply couldn't help but sit back and remember all that happened in this office. It definitely gave him a headache when he recalled all those times when he and Dumbledore had been talking—for now he remembered the conversations from both perspectives!

And Dumbledore! The things he could do! The power that he held! And—here Harry couldn't help but exclaim again within his thoughts—the _knowledge!_ It was _incredible_. The things the man could do with his wand were… simply beyond what Harry might have imagined possible.

And now, he could do them as well. Harry sat still, awe filling him. He was Harry Potter, yes, but he was now also Albus Dumbledore. It was… odd… to think of himself as so. It wasn't as if he thought of himself as two different entities—more, it was as if he were a separate one entirely from Albus and Harry; a third identity, a blend between the two.

Yet, at the heart of it—he realised with a start—he still considered himself as _Harry_, not as Albus Dumbledore. It was a startling revelation. For all that he had lived through the life of Albus Dumbledore, he was _still_ Harry Potter.

A sudden smile stretched his lips and Harry thought within his mind, _Tempus Explici_. The spell answered with a chime, _June 29th, 1997, 7:56 am_.

_Four days_, thought Harry, his smile coming from the fact that he could now perform small bits of wandless magic. _It's been four days since I started the spell_. He didn't know if he felt shocked that it had taken so long, or concerned that he hadn't even noticed such a passage of time.

_It's been a strange beginning of summer_, thought Harry. It had started with Dumbledore's death—which Harry forced himself not to think about, as he could remember vividly the moment the Killing Curse struck from Dumbledore's perspective, the feeling of utter release that came with it, the cold feel of death's touch—_enough!_—then the early dismissal of students. On the heels of this had come an announcement declaring that Hogwarts would be shut down for "security purposes" and that there would be a "serious revision of the defences surrounding the school."

Harry snorted, and shook his head sadly. He now knew the castle better than anyone in this school, and he knew that Hogwarts—the sentient being that she was—would not tolerate the invasion by the Ministry of Magic. With his newfound knowledge, he would bet that the school would manage to turn away all Ministry personnel by the end of the week.

Then he froze. Today was the end of the week. The end of the first week of the summer break. Today was the day Professional McGonagall would come to check on him.

Harry relaxed himself slowly, and took a deep breath, before releasing it audibly. Well, all the better. He could already think of several things he would have to do before the end of the second week. In fact, the thought of the future opened a flood of ideas and memories, plans that Dumbledore had been thinking before he died, plans that Harry had been thinking before the _Memoria Exsisto _spell.

It had been the day after Dumbledore's funeral when this whole thing with the ritual of _Memoria Exsisto_ had begun. Harry had been asked to visit Professor McGonagall in her old office—an apparent _emergency_ requiring his presence immediately. He could still remember the stern-looking face of the Transfiguration Professor tight with worry, her lips pressed thin, as she had quickly directed him towards her office.

"Potter, quickly now, Professor Dumbledore wishes to see you," she had said urgently, pulling her wand out to light the Floo. "The Ministry has just announced that Hogwarts will close early for summer due to 'security purposes', and that the students will be sent home tomorrow. I will attempt to keep the knowledge that you are still here from reaching their ears."

Harry, wide-eyed, had stared incredulously at his teacher. Was she mad? Did she already forget the funeral they had just had the day before? As gently as he could, he had said, "Professor,—er, you _do_ remember that Professor Dumbledore's dead—?"

Professor McGonagall had _tsk_ed impatiently. "I misspoke. I meant his portrait."

"Oh," Harry had replied. He had vaguely remembered seeing the man's sleeping form when he had last been in his office. "Erm. He wants to talk to me? Do you know what—?"

"No, Mr. Potter, I am not in the habit of asking him why he wishes to do anything," she had said tightly, her voice filled with irritation. Harry knew she was still raw over the fact that he had refused to reveal what he and Dumbledore had been doing that night of the man's murder. "But whatever it is, I hope you will do as he asks. More than just your own future rests in your hands. The fate, and future, of this school lies within it as well. The Board of Governors will be meeting tomorrow. I feel they will vote to shut Hogwarts forever. Whatever Professor Dumbledore has to offer, you must do it. Do you understand?"

"Wait—H-Hogwarts might be closed forever?" Harry had asked in disbelief. Though he would not be returning, he had still hoped that the school would continue to remain open.

Professor McGonagall had closed her eyes briefly with a show of weariness that he knew she would never have shown anyone else. "Yes. There is a very big likelihood of this fact. And even if it were to remain open, I fear Hogwarts—without Albus's power—will fall into the hands of the Ministry for their use and purposes. You recall Umbridge, I believe?" Harry had nodded. "That is what I fear will happen—and I would rather see Hogwarts closed forever than to see it in the hands of such politicians. So, Potter, I pray that Professor Dumbledore will have something to offer, some wisdom. Now, go. Quickly. Miss Tonks shall be taking your place for the moment—however, she will not be able to take your place at Privet Drive. All Aurors have been called to perform what the Ministry calls 'serious revision of the defences surrounding the school.'" It had been pretty obvious what the Transfiguration Professor thought of that, her usually strict voice thick with scorn. "She must not be missed."

"I understand, Professor," Harry had said slowly. "Do you know how long he'll want to talk to me?"

"I do not know—however, he has informed me not to allow any disturbances to intrude for a week." Professor McGonagall had twitched her wand, and a pot full of Floo powder had levitated off a shelf and had floated nearby Harry. "I have spelled the office to seclusion. It will hold at the moment, I believe. Food will be sent to you by the House Elves. Now, go. You are the Chosen One, and you hold our lives and our future in your hands. Go, Pot—Harry. Go with our hope, and may you succeed."

And so Harry had Flooed to the Headmaster's office, and he had been forced to choose between life and death—for if he had not done the _Memoria Exsisto_, it was a certainty that he would have died at the hands of Lord Voldemort.He had been indecisive for three days, mulling over the pros and the cons. He had thought, and thought, and thought until he thought his head would burst. After all, it required sacrifice on his part—to lose a part of himself, a large part of himself, forever. In gaining Dumbledore's memories, there was a large chance he would lose his. But he had finally decided.

He was not sorry, now, for what he had done. He finally felt true confidence bloom within him when he thought of the future. He had a chance, now. He had a very good chance.

He would not fail.

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Harry's stomach grumbled loudly, forcing him to stand up and look for the plates of food the house-elves usually left out for him—but was disappointed to find none. 

Then a grin crossed his face. He waved his wand lightly, effortlessly conjuring a meal for himself, and delighted in the odd mix of feelings that the movement had just created: the sense that his _permanent_ conjuration—an art which only the most masterful in Transfiguration could accomplish—was both natural to him _and_ new.

Harry wordlessly levitated the food and got onto his feet, amazed at the fact that he could so naturally and easily manipulate the platter of food to follow him, and moved over to the shelves housing some of Dumbledore's most prized possessions. They were Harry's now. His.

Grabbing a sandwich from the platter, Harry waved his wand gently, and conjured several crates while simultaneously packing away all his books and materials cluttering the office. Professor McGonagall would be using it now as Headmistress—if Hogwarts was to remain open, which he would ensure it would if the Board decided otherwise—and so he packed up everything that he remembered as belonging to Dumbledore. Chewing on his food, allowing his magic to pack things up, Harry moved over to his old desk, and smiled sadly as he touched the worn wooden Head's desk. He would miss it.

Then a small box caught his eye, and Harry grinned as he quickly opened it and found two items inside. The first was Dumbledore's half-moon glasses. _Perfect_, thought Harry as he pulled them out of their case. Harry tapped the glasses, and transfigured them into something a bit more fashionable, and more something his age would wear appearance-wise, and nodded at the result. Transfiguration sure was easy, now, with Dumbledore's knowledge. He quickly switched his old ones for Dumbledore's, and grinned with satisfaction. The old spells were still on the glasses.

For when Harry looked through them, he could now see magic. It was an heirloom in Dumbledore's family, he knew, and this was how Dumbledore had in the past seemed to have an uncanny ability to see through his Invisibility Cloak.

The glasses weren't quite as powerful as Moody's—it certainly couldn't see through walls or clothing—but it did pierce through nearly all Disillusionment Charms that Dumbledore had come across. And it was very useful for detecting magical spells laced into food or letters—sometimes even powerful magical poisons lighted up. It had saved Dumbledore's life several times.

The second item was much more important, and much more valuable. It was Dumbledore's wand. The sight of it brought back memories of Dumbledore's childhood, his obsessing over the wand the first few days after he had bought it. It made Harry crack a grin as he reached up and lifted it up again.

It was nowhere near the calibre of his first wand, since it wasn't quite as compatible with Harry as it was with Dumbledore—since technically, though he held all of Dumbledore's memories, he _was_ still physically Harry Potter—but it was still a better fit than anyone else's wand he had ever tried.

Harry pocketed Dumbledore's wand, and waved his own wand once more, and the desk began to empty out mounds of parchments and files and folders. As more and more crates appeared, he was forced to approach the ones that were already full, and with several swishes and flicks, minimized their sizes and made them quite light in mass. A flick of his wand, and the miniaturized crates flew into Harry's pockets, and Harry turned back to the desk, satisfied with the results.

He repeated the process with the other crates when the desk was finally emptied out, and he sighed at last when the office was empty. He would sort through the crates later, when he found a place to stay.

When he turned to leave, disabling all the wards with a single motion of his wand, Harry paused when he saw the empty frame of Albus Dumbledore's portrait. _That's right_, he recalled, _Dumbledore used the same spell to release himself. I remember. _In fact, he could remember speaking the very words of the spell himself, could recall looking down at the moaning version of himself from his portrait.

_This double perception is going to get confusing_, thought Harry. It felt definitely odd to feel sorry for the death of a man who was also, in a way, _himself_—after all, Harry was Dumbledore now, and Dumbledore was Harry. _Well, maybe not quite that. But almost._

That was when he felt the tickling feeling in the back of his mind, and he looked up at the door expectantly. "You may enter, Professor McGonagall," he called out.

The door swung open, revealing a wary Professor McGonagall, though she looked surprised to see that it had been Harry to bid her admission. "Mr. Potter, I see you are all right." She tinged her tone with a hint of question and Harry smiled kindly.

"Of course," he said pleasantly. "In fact, one could say I've never felt better."

The professor arched an eyebrow. "Is that so? Care to elaborate?"

Dumbledore's memories of Minerva McGonagall flashed through his mind, and Harry considered the professor before him. Dumbledore had known her for nearly seventy years, now. He had even been the one to ask her to teach after he had been elevated to the position of Headmaster—and in fact, she had only intended to stay for a single year, but had enjoyed teaching so much that she had remained. And most important of all, Minerva McGonagall had never in her entire life been untrustworthy. She had never revealed secrets that needed to be kept, and she never had any inclination of turning to the Dark.

He could trust her—at least, with the general information. He would not reveal all, for even she would not be able to keep his secrets if Lord Voldemort came demanding.

"Please sit, Professor," said Harry cordially, waving his wand to conjure two posh couches. He smiled at her incredulous look, and gestured for her to sit. "I will explain everything in just a moment. Tea?"

"I suppose, yes," she said slowly. He waved his wand, and a small table appeared, followed by a platter with two cups filled with tea. Her eyes narrowed, searching his face—then they widened. "_No_."

Harry met her gaze, and nodded pleasantly. "Yes, Professor."

"Dumbledore?"

"I prefer to be called Harry, thank you very much," replied Harry calmly. "Do drink up; you appear to be rather pale. Has something happened?"

Her eyes locked onto Harry's, she shakily reached for her cup and drank. "How?" she croaked out at last. "_Memoria Exsisto_?"

"As sharp as ever," chuckled Harry. He smiled when she sputtered with indignation and shook his head in a placating manner. "I remember it all, you see—even your childhood."

"I should assume so with the _Memoria Exsisto_," said Professor McGonagall coldly, though her hands trembled. "But… I would not have believed Dumbledore would ever ask this of you—"

"And he didn't want to," Harry gently cut in. "But really, what choice did he have? And really, what choice did _I_ have? You have said so yourself—the fate of us all, and our future, rested on this." Harry relaxed, and took a sip of his tea. Delicious. "I am at peace with myself for this decision, as was Dumbledore in the end. Did you know that his last words before he joined the ritual were that he _believed in me_?" He shook his head sadly. "Dumbledore was a great man. A great man." A small smile crossed his lips. "Believe me, I would know."

Professor McGonagall was silent for a moment, and Harry took the time to study her. She was dressed in her usual robes, simple yet elegant, and her hair was in her usual tight bun. But there was something different about her, and he caught sight of it a moment later. She was more composed than she had been before he had done the ritual. She was more tranquil, perhaps even satisfied with something. Without even thinking, he looked into her eyes and reached out, and brushed across her mind with Legilimency.

_Minerva was sitting within the Great Hall with a cold expression frozen on her face. The Hall had been structured in order to effectively convene the Board of Governors. She was positioned at one end of a long oval table with the other professors around her, and at the other end was Minister Scrimgeour, between them the school governors._

"_Has the Board reached its decision?" called out Minister Scrimgeour._

_She fought to keep herself still. The moment had come._

"_We have, Minister," answered a warm voice, a tone of formality in her words. It was an old witch, who looked well above a hundred years old—Madam Griselda Marchbanks. "The Hogwarts Board of Governors has convened this 23rd of June, 1997, with regards to the possibility of a permanent or temporary closure of the school. With the issue of permanent closure of Hogwarts, the Board has come to a unanimous conclusion that eternal closure would be fruitless and prove to be ultimately ill-advised. Furthermore, the Board has reached with a greater consensus the decision to reject the British Ministry of Magic's proposal for a temporary closure of the school and have reached the conviction to continue to open the school, starting the beginning term on September the first, as has been the practice for many centuries and perhaps for many centuries to come.  
_

_The speaker paused, but Minerva did not relax. There was surely more to come. Surely._

_Then Madam Marchbanks, most likely the head of the Board, continued, "With the lesser consensus, the Board has reached its decision to furthermore reject the Ministry's offer of a High Inquisitor to overtake the duties of the Headmaster, and with respect to the Hogwarts's By-Laws, the Board of Governors shall appoint Professor Minerva McGonagall as interim Headmistress of Hogwarts, until the probationary period of one full year, three hundred and sixty-five days, has passed. She shall then meet the Board of Governors for an assessment of her administrative skills wherein it will be determined whether she will be appointed as full Headmistress of Hogwarts School."_

_The Minister let out a noise of outrage, and Minerva thought she could breathe again at last. She was interim Headmistress. Hogwarts would remain open, and not only that, but without Ministry influence. That, she would ensure._

"_So decided," called out Madam Marchbanks over the noise, her tiny form taut with irritation at the disturbance, "by the Hogwarts Board of Governors this 23rd of June, 1997. Let all records show that every decision has had the support of a consensus within the Board, and let all here be witnessed to its decrees: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry shall open on the first of September to begin its 1027th year of service and education under the administration of Professor Minerva Athena McGonagall, interim Headmistress." The old woman paused for a moment, then continued. "As chairman of the Board of Governors, I, Madam Professor Griselda Marchbanks, declare this 1913th meeting of the Hogwarts Board of Governors concluded."_

Harry withdrew gently, and found that only moments had passed by while he had viewed the memory. So, he thought to himself, Hogwarts would remain open. Excellent. "So," he said quietly, breaking the silence, "Hogwarts is to remain open. I believe congratulations are in order, interim Headmistress McGonagall."

The professor looked up, startled, and her eyes narrowed—before she shook her head ruefully. "I should have known. You, just like Dumbledore, are now as omniscient as he was."

Harry only smiled. "Perhaps, Professor, perhaps. Well, as you can see—" he gestured behind him to the emptied shelves and desk "—I've already cleared it up for your use. Use it well. Dumbledore has always had utmost confidence in you, you should know. You will do well as Headmistress."

"T-thank you," said Professor McGonagall unsteadily. "It—it is good to know that he would have thought so."

He nodded sadly. Yes, he knew very well. "Well, then. It is time for me to move on. Tell me before I leave, what else has gone on in the world with my absence?"

"Not much has occurred," Professor McGonagall replied after a moment of collecting her thoughts. "Of course, the wizarding world is still in an uproar; Dumbledore's death the cause, I believe."

Harry nodded, motioning her to continue.

"There have been no attacks recently. Death Eaters have been laying low."

"And Lord Voldemort?" Harry's mouth quirked when her lips tightened oh-so-slightly at the name.

"He has not shown himself at all, as of yet."

"I see," he replied slowly, considering. "And what of the Dursleys and Tonks? How has my absence been covered up?"

"Miss Tonks was able to take your form and traverse with your friends to King's Cross—however, she had to be called back to Hogwarts before even meeting your relatives. Oh, and yes, the Aurors will be finishing up today, I believe." Professor McGonagall's lips twitched a little. "I have yet to meet an Auror who found this survey of the castle defenses a pleasant excursion. I believe Hogwarts did not enjoy their intrusion." Harry nodded pleasantly, agreeing. "As for your relatives, perhaps I should have arranged to inform them of the delay in your return—but I found myself otherwise preoccupied." The newly appointed Headmistress did not show a shred of apology, but rather seem pleased with herself at this.

Harry raised an eyebrow. He knew, just as she did, that she could have easily informed them—by owl, if nothing else. But he said nothing. After all, what did he care if the Dursleys had had to wait for hours, before finally leaving in a fit after being stood up by him? The thought made Harry nearly chuckle.

Professor McGonagall's breath caught suddenly, and he looked at her inquisitively. "Professor, are you all right?"

"I—Potter," said Professor McGonagall, stumbling over her words. "You looked just like Dumbledore right then; your eyes twinkled as merrily as his had always done."

"Indeed?" said Harry pleasantly, oddly undisturbed by this piece of knowledge. He had already accepted that his mannerisms would change with the integration of Dumbledore's memories. The twinkling of his eyes seemed to be one of those changes, albeit a peculiar one. He could remember many times when he had wanted to stop the man's blue eyes from twinkling so freely—but it seemed now he would have that same annoying habit. He couldn't help but chuckle.

"Now what, Harry? What will you do?" asked Professor McGonagall after a moment.

Harry cocked his head to the side, looking at her carefully. "Why, plan the war against Lord Voldemort, of course." He smiled down at her with a pleasant expression of tranquility.

"Yes," she said coldly with irritation. "Perhaps a little more detail would be welcome?"

"But, Professor, surely you would understand my reluctance to trust even you with my plans—now, it is not a reflection on your integrity, but rather a precaution to protect you. You know this." Harry waved, and the table between him and the professor vanished. "Now, Dumbledore was always intending to leave the Order to your command should he ever have faltered. That time has come. Take great care of the Order of the Phoenix." He stood, and looked down at the professor. "Minerva McGonagall, you have been charged with the safety of this school as well as the safety of the Order. Do you accept these responsibilities, and give oath to commit your utmost to them?"

Professor McGonagall looked up at Harry, her eyes blinking a few times at the suddenness of his demands, before they hardened. A glint of determination entered her steely eyes, and she spoke at last with confidence. "I do."

"Then may Merlin guide your hand, Headmistress and Commander of the Order of the Phoenix. You have been charged, and you have accepted. Be safe."

Professor McGonagall stood slowly, and Harry nodded. "Well, since we have that over with, I should hope I needn't warn you of speaking to anyone of this? That silence for now is best?" At the professor's nod, he smiled. "Excellent, then. I believe it's time for me to be leaving. I trust you, and Dumbledore certainly trusted you." He gave her a final nod. "Farewell, Headmistress." He turned to leave at last, his thoughts orienting themselves as his concerns turned towards the future.

But the Headmistress called out just as he was about to exit, and he turned back to look at her.

"Harry, I—we—thank you. You have sacrificed your life for ours." She paused, then said in an odd whisper, "Thank you."

He smiled pleasantly, and calmly, and knew his eyes twinkled. "No worries, Professor—"

"Minerva," she interrupted. "You may call me Minerva."

He nodded. "Minerva, then. You need not worry. I no longer view the _Memoria Exsisto_ as a ritual of sacrifice, but rather a ritual that helped opened my eyes, and gave me a chance. I'm not sorry for what I did, and neither should you." He took a deep breath. "Now, then, Minerva, time is ever-flowing. You shall hear of me soon, I should think."

And with that he turned and left at last. He had a nation to save, and he had a wizard to destroy.

And behind him, within the recently emptied office stood interim Headmistress McGonagall, who whispered with wonderment after Harry left, a voice filled with hope: "I believe in you, Harry. You _will_ do well."

* * *

Harry had Disillusioned himself to look like one of the many Aurors crawling up and down the hallways of Hogwarts, and hid a grin whenever the moving staircases would lurch with a start on several poor Aurors. Sometimes the staircases would shift just before someone managed to get on it, making that someone balance precariously at the edge of the now stair-less hallway. Luckily, everyone seemed to be travelling in pairs and usually their partners managed to pull them to safety. Harry did see a couple of times when the unbalanced Auror _would _fall, forcing his partner to draw his wand and spell him to safety. It was oddly entertaining to see. 

Of course, he did notice that generally only the red-robed Aurors were abused by the castle, as most of the other wizards not wearing the standard robes of the Aurors appeared to be workers, repairing the damaged hallways where the battle had taken place. While most of the damage seemed to be cleared up, it seemed the Ministry was taking this chance to fix up the old castle.

He met no trouble most of the way towards the Entrance Hall, but it was just as he was passing by the trophy room when he heard a shout behind him. "Hey, you there! Stop right where you are!"

A quick glance ahead of him showed that there was no one around for whom that yell could be directed at but Harry, and so he turned reluctantly. His faced them composed and cool as he spoke lightly. "Can I help you—"

"_Imperio!_" snapped one of the Aurors, and Harry allowed himself to succumb to the Imperius Curse with amusement.

How interesting, he thought to himself. It would be entertaining to see where this led to. It didn't escape his notice that he oddly felt no concern at all for being cursed at, but rather felt only dry amusement. Who did they think they were?

Then Harry had a sudden shock when he felt the strength of the Imperius Curse as it sank into his mind. It was as though a vice grip had slammed into his head with the force of a crushing, cascading wave; the Unforgivable Curse attempted through pure force to take root at the deepest levels of consciousness within Harry's mind.

There was only one person, apart from Lord Voldemort, who had this sort of power behind _Imperio_. Harry had felt claws like these only from one other person besides the Dark Lord; it had been from Milton Mulciber, the Imperius Curse specialist. Of course, he _had_ been _Imperio_ed by many wizards—combining Dumbledore's experience with his own—but only those two had had such powerful an effect.

Of course, even Mulciber's Imperius was no match for Harry if he ever desired to overcome it—but the very fact that it _was_ Mulciber standing before him, disguised and free, worried him greatly. _How can this be?_ wondered Harry with a flash of concern. The wizard was supposed to be locked away in Azkaban. Lord Voldemort must have broken him out, obviously—but why did Minerva not inform him of an Azkaban breakout? Perhaps she didn't know? If she didn't then that meant the Daily Prophet did not know—and that suggested strongly that the Ministry did not know. He frowned internally, just below his shields of Occlumency—undetected by Mulciber's claw-like curse—and decided that he would have to deal with Scrimgeour as soon as possible.

"Do you have him?" asked Mulciber's partner impatiently—Travers, Harry recognized him as. Though both Death Eaters had various charms masking their true identities, Harry could easily see through them with Dumbledore's glasses. "Well?"

"Yes, yes—though he does possess quite a powerful mind, I can feel it. But yes, I have him."

"We don't have time to dawdle then, Mulciber—"

Mulciber snarled. "_Do not name me, fool!_ The walls have ears in this place! Have you forgotten everything the Dark Lord—?"

"Don't call me a fool!" snapped the other man just as vehemently, though there was a touch of defensiveness attached. "And what about you? Naming our Lord—" The Death Eater cut off abruptly, biting on his words before he named the Dark Lord—or perhaps he stopped because of the frosty glare Mulciber was aiming in his direction.

Harry nearly rolled his eyes. What fools!

Then footsteps approached, and Harry saw two more Aurors. _Looks like things are about to get bloody_, he thought as he prepared to snap the Imperious Curse—but stopped when he saw Mulciber's actions: the man was welcoming them. _What?_ Then the Aurors were close enough for Harry to see clearly through their illusionary spells—they were two Death Eaters, Dolohov and Avery.

"Arrived at last, have you?"

One of the new Death Eaters shrugged without concern. Dolohov was obviously unafraid of Mulciber. "We were delayed." He turned to look at Harry up and down with scorn. "This the one you chose, then?"

"He was the only one going around alone."

"Indeed? Well then, now that we're all here, why don't we begin?"

Mulciber snarled wordlessly, then spoke bitingly, "Do not command me, Dolohov, you have no authority over me!"

"You imbecile!" sneered Avery coldly. "Will you bloody shut your mouth! How dare you name us—are you working for the Muggle-loving fools now?"

Mulciber glowered balefully. "Shut it." The man was practically hissing with anger. "I won't stand for being so insulted by the likes of you—!"

"Just do whatever you're going to do," growled Avery, exasperatedly. "Just get to it—make this Auror create the distraction!"

"I was just about to, imbecile," said Mulciber coldly. Then he transferred his glare to Harry.

_Move_, spoke a powerful voice in Harry mind, thundering with command._ Run to the nearest Aurors, and begin cursing them. You will attack as many as you can. Go!_

Truly fascinating, Harry thought below the surface. What did they need the distraction for? He turned, his body moving outside his control, and Harry allowed the Curse to continue its hold on his mind and body after a moment of consideration. He would see where this would head.

Harry had just turned around, preparing to run—and decided quickly that he would only run to the nearest corner, then manipulate the Imperius Curse, and watch—but from up ahead appeared a pair of Aurors. He identified both. Aurors Dawlish and Williamson.

_Stop_, commanded Mulciber to Harry quickly. _Do nothing. You will not speak!_

"What are you five doing down here in the trophy room?" demanded Dawlish as he approached with long strides. He had a frown on his face. Williamson had already drawn his wand, a suspicious glare on his face.

_Well_, thought Harry. It looked liked things would heat up without his intervention. He prepared to break the Imperius Curse earlier than he had planned. He would to it the moment things went bad—otherwise, he wanted to know more about the situation. What were the Death Eaters doing?

Two of the Death Eaters, Avery and Dolohov, had not even bothered to acknowledge the new arrivals and were instead studying a trophy behind its glass case. Harry couldn't see which one. However, he did see Mulciber and his partner exchange glances, and did not have a good feeling about the situation any more.

"I wasn't aware of any Aurors surveying this location," snapped Auror Williamson, his eyes searching the disguised faces of the Death Eaters, as well as Harry's. The Auror's eyes narrowed. "I don't think I've ever seen you—_what in Merlin's beard do you think you're doing?_"

Avery had just destroyed the glass surrounding the trophies.

Dawlish drew his wand, now, and pointed it at the two Aurors by the trophy displays. "I demand you stop, _right now!_ How _dare_ you—?"

"Will you just get rid of them, already?" sneered Dolohov. "Our Lord will not be pleased if we were to delay—"

Williamson's eyes were wide with incredulity. "Your Lord—delay—" Horror flashed across the Auror's face as realisation dawned on him, and he took a stumbling step back—

"_Avada_—" Both Mulciber and Travers started to curse at the same time, directing their wands towards Dawlish and Williamson—and Harry knew things had gone too far, now. With ease, he swiftly snapped the Imperius Curse and spun around. "_—Kedavra!_"

"Bloody hell—!" roared Dawlish, his wand wordlessly spitting out a curse even as he dived to the side. Williamson was not so quick and it looked like the Killing Curse would hit him straight on—

Then Harry's wand was drawn and Williamson was forcefully pulled down, allowing the _Avada Kedavra_ to fly over his head and explode against a stone wall. Travers barely managed to dive out of the way of Dawlish's silent spell.

"Wha—_AVADA KEDAVRA!_" bellowed Mulciber in Harry's direction.

Harry swiftly moved out of the way and jerked his wand. Mulciber screamed as his wand tore out of his hand in a blast, and as Harry swept his wand out once more, there was a flash of golden light, and the Death Eater was tightly bound and unconscious in the corner of the room.

"_Sonorus!_" roared Dawlish, then his next words boomed across the whole school. "DEATH EATERS IN THE TROPHY ROOM! ALERT—"

"_CRUCIO!_" cried Travers from the ground, his glare hot with rage at having to dive—

_Useless distraction!_ cursed Harry silently at the Aurors. He quickly worked his wand and tugged Dawlish away from the incoming spell—

"_AVADA KEDAVRA!_" Travers shouted again, and the green light sped to Williamson, who had been about to curse the two other Death Eaters who were reverently lifting a trophy from the display—it looked to be in the shape of a cup—

With a growl of annoyance and frustration, Harry swept his wand before him and a large wooden board was conjured in the trajectory of the Killing Curse, between it and Williamson—

A blast of light passed by Harry and blew Avery off his feet, and Harry spun around to see Moody lurching in with another Auror in tow, and cursed silently. _More distractions! _He could have easily handled the Death Eaters by now if the useless Aurors weren't in the way!

"Take the Portkey!" snarled Travers at the other Death Eater. "Take the trophy with you back to the Dark Lord—"

Dolohov, with the trophy in his one hand, swung his wand with his other—and the stone floor under Moody and his partner split and erupted up in a shower of debris—

_Enough_, thought Harry with a note of finality. _This has gone on long enough!_ He swung his wand from left to right in a grand gesture of power, and magic spun out at his command. All four Death Eaters were swept together as though dragged along by a large hook, and at the same time ropes appeared around them, binding them tightly. A small flick of Harry's wand at the end of his commanding swing twisted their wands, as well as the trophy, from their hands and they gathered and landed in a neat pile by Harry's feet.

And then it was over. Moody and the other Aurors were picking themselves up from the floor—gingerly in Dawlish's case—and Harry stood standing tall before the bound Death Eaters calmly. When the last conscious Death Eater bared his teeth in his direction, Harry couldn't help but chuckle lightly. _Ah, well_. He arched a brow, then met the Death Eater's glare.

_Legilimens._ He reached out and brushed the Death Eater's thoughts. He encountered decent Occlumency shields, but grasped hold them and swiped them away with pure strength alone. The shields resisted, stretching and stretching, growing thinner and thinner, but were ultimately no match for him and finally burst. He slipped inside easily after that.

It was the mind of Dolohov, another Azkaban escapee.

_He was before Lord Voldemort, bowed low on the ground. Behind him were dozens of others, rescued from Azkaban in the quietest breakout yet._

"_I have several missions for you," said Lord Voldemort coldly. "You will not fail these missions. Each and every one of you, here before me now, have already failed me once. I do not take to fools well, and shall find it hard to overlook another failure. Is that clear?"_

_Dolohov murmured along with everyone else, vowing fervently to do his best to accomplish his Lord's will._

_The Dark Lord was an imposing figure, his power a majestic vibe that fed fear into his followers. "Then, my loyal Death Eaters, listen closely. Dolohov, Avery, Mulciber, Travers—you shall find a way to retrieve a certain item for me that resides within the walls of Hogwarts. It is up to you to decide the logistics—and I shall only say this: the item that I desire must not, at all costs, fall into the hands of the Ministry."_

_Lord Voldemort paused to study his four Death Eaters._

"_We live to serve," murmured Dolohov when he felt his master's blood-red gaze burning into him, and he heard Avery beside him whisper, "We will succeed, Master." _Fool_, thought Dolohov, _to promise such a thing

"_The item is a certain trophy—" Dolohov noticed Travers's face contort with disbelief, and barely managed to hide his own; after all, to risk his life for a trophy? "—that is located within the glass display at Hogwarts. Ahh, I see you are surprised that you risk your lives to retrieve a trophy—very well, I shall elaborate. The item has been disguised to look the appearance of an Award for Special Services, rewarded to one Tom Marvolo Riddle, but is in fact an artifact of great power. I had placed it there, many years ago through my pet, Wormtail—right under the old fool's nose, where he would least expect such an item to be found—but it is now time I have it back."_

_There was a moment of brief silence, thick with tension, and the Dark Lord said at last with finality. "Go now. You know the consequences of failure—I shall not tolerate it to any degree. Go now, my loyal Death Eaters!" The Dark Lord turned from them, and faced the other Death Eaters. "Another mission that I have in mind requires—_"

Harry withdrew, satisfied with what he had seen, and absentmindedly spelled Dolohov to sleep. So. The award trophy was a mask for something else. Even now, as he peered down at it with Dumbledore's glasses, he saw only an ordinary trophy. _Lord Voldemort must have formidable Disillusionment Charms placed on this, then_. He felt a slow smile build on his face. There was only one thing Lord Voldemort would place so much protection on—it was a Horcrux, he was sure. _Perhaps even the Cup of Helga Hufflepuff_, he mused. He could hardly believe his luck—to have a Horcrux fall right into his hands!

"_Potter?_" snapped Moody in disbelief. "What are you doing here, boy? Eh?" Dawlish was staring wide-eyed at Harry and Williamson's jaw dropped with absolute disbelief. In fact, the only one who managed to keep his shock internalised was Moody's partner Auror—but, Harry thought, it was not due to the Auror's superior control, but rather it seemed the man was too stupid to comprehend the situation quickly. Of course, this was confirmed a moment later, when the Auror gasped suddenly and proceeded to stare incredulously at Harry.

The teen in question looked up calmly, disappointment written all over his face. "I never knew you to be so indiscreet, Auror Moody," he said pleasantly. "Well, no matter." He raised his wand, and whispered mentally, _Obliviate_. It was nearly effortless for him to enter three minds simultaneously as the Memory Charms struck—he did not cast the spell on Moody, but only on the other three—and alter their memories. He wandlessly put them to sleep was he exited, and with a flick of his wand, gently caught their fainting forms before lowering them slowly onto the floor and released them painlessly.

"What did you do?" growled Moody.

"A simple Memory Charm," answered Harry with a small smile. "Nothing to worry about. Now—" But he paused, as he heard running footsteps, and knew the rest of the Aurors were about to barge in. "It seems we're about to be interrupted. Well, I would rather you forget about ever seeing me here. Perhaps some day I may explain it in detail—but that day is not today. If you truly feel it necessary, you could see Professor McGonagall—though she might not be too forthcoming, and I'm sure I don't need to warn you again about indiscretion. Now, I have only moments left—and I fear I must stay no longer. I have no wish to be caught by the Ministry." Harry's smile widened. "At least, not on their terms. I trust you can handle this mess, correct?"

Moody seemed gob-smacked—most probably from the overflow of information. Harry nodded. "Very well. I'll bid you a good day, then." He quickly reached over and conjuring a cloth, wrapped it lightly around the trophy. After all, there was piece of Voldemort's soul within it—there was no telling what it might do if Harry touched it.

Harry just managed to hide himself behind a veil of Disillusionment Charms before the first of the Aurors turned around the corner to the trophy room, but he was long gone before Dolohov, Moody's partner, and Williamson were wakened from their induced slumber.

He would head to Privet Drive and arrange a few matters with his relatives first. Harry paused a moment outside on the Hogwarts grounds and studied Hogwarts Castle for what he thought might be a last time. _I will miss it_, he thought wistfully. He had been a student, a teacher, and a Headmaster at the school. Yes, he would miss it.

Carefully adjusting the trophy, Harry once again couldn't believe his luck. The Horcrux had practically fallen directly into his hands! He only hoped the others would be as easy to find. While he did have suspicions as to where the true locket lay, as well as the other Horcruxes, there would still need to be a search for their exact locations—not mention the unknown last Horcrux. But he was determined to succeed. Besides, Dumbledore had already been thinking of it, and Harry knew his plans most intimately now.

With a deep breath, Harry stepped outside the gates, still cloaked behind spells of deception, and Apparated to number four, Privet Drive.

Only now, he knew, the true work would begin.

* * *

**_To be continued…._**

**_Part II: _Foundations** _will be updated soon. But reviews really encourage me to write! So take the hint and _review!_ A simple, "Wonderful!" or a "Love it!" will do! Even simple messages like that inspire authors to write more! _

* * *

**Ending Notes:**

Again. Contest entry. Hopefully done soon. My beta will soon have the next part looked over. Hopefully. I have to admit, she does have her work cut out for her.

Please give me an honest review, thanks!

Read the "_To be continued…."_ section for the date of the next upload. Happy **_reviewing!_**

Comments always welcome.

_-- liath_

! Updated: 8.29.06 !_  
_


	3. PartII: Foundations

* * *

**Part Two: Foundations**

_by Taliath_

* * *

It seemed ages since Harry had last been here—so much had happened since that night Dumbledore had picked him up the year before. And now as Harry approached the front door of number four, he felt almost as though he were slipping back in time. The house was remarkably untouched, appearing the same to his eyes, as was the whole street, and he couldn't help but feel as though he were finally waking up from a horrible nightmare—that he would blink, and find that the whole of the wizarding world was but a figment of his imagination. But of course, Dumbledore's memories were not false, and that ended the feeling fairly abruptly. Harry didn't know if he was disappointed that it wasn't a dream, or happy because it wasn't. 

After a calming deep breath, he rang the door bell. _Ding, dong_.

"Who is it?" called out a voice. It was Aunt Petunia. Harry didn't answer.

The door opened. "Can I help—?" Aunt Petunia's eyes widened when she saw him, then they narrowed with hatred. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Good day to you too, Aunt Petunia," replied Harry pleasantly, with a touch of amusement.

Then Aunt Petunia caught sight of what he was wearing, his wizard's robes and all, and her eyes widened with scandalised, outraged, and highly offended disbelief. "_Get inside!_" she hissed, her hand clawing at his robes and pulling him in. "_What were you thinking, you idiotic boy?_" Aunt Petunia nearly moaned and shuddered with distress as she quickly glanced up and down the street, looking for anyone who could have possibly seen her nephew in such freaky, unnatural clothes. "Oh, you just have to ruin _everything_, don't you! Just like your filthy freak of a father—!"

"That is _enough_," said Harry coldly, and shrugged off his aunt's death grip on his robes. A touch of his wandless magic smoothened the wrinkles. Aunt Petunia gave a gasp when she saw with wide eyes the seemingly self-flattening robes. "Where's Uncle Vernon?"

"Petunia? Who was it, darling?" Uncle Vernon lumbered out of the kitchen, but froze when he saw Harry—and predictably turned into a dark shade of purple. "_You!_"

Harry couldn't help it; he replied pleasantly, "Me." He brushed off imaginary dust from his robes, and moved forward. "I need to talk to you both—and Dudley as well—in the living room. I suppose that's really the only place to have a decent chat. Now, where is Dudley, anyway?"

For a moment, both his relatives seemed too stunned to speak, before Uncle Vernon's eyes narrowed with fury. "How _dare_ you—you filthy—_freak!_ I WILL NOT BE ORDERED AROUND IN MY OWN HOUSE!"

Harry brushed past him dismissively and surveyed the living room. Ah, there was Dudley, asleep on the couch in the midst of a various half-eaten plates and dishes. The television volume was set to a quiet drone, and Harry couldn't help but roll his eyes.

He drew his wand and lightly swished it in the boy's direction, banishing the mess to the kitchen—and that seemed to wake his cousin up at last.

"Wha-what's going on?" asked Dudley as his eyes blinked groggily. He looked stupidly around him for a moment, as though wondering where his food had gone, before he finally seemed to reach the conclusion that his plates and dishes were indeed missing. "Hey!" he cried, now fully awake, and turned around with his piggy eyes narrowing with growing anger. "What happened to my—?" His eyes widened as far as they would go when he saw Harry. "_Harry?_"

Harry waved his wand a few times, clearing an small area in the living room by pushing away the television set and other miscellaneous items, and conjured a large posh chair for him to sit in. He placed the trophy by the foot of the chair, still carefully wrapped, then finally answered Dudley with calm puzzlement, "There seems to be a trend of stating the obvious today, Dudley. And yes, it's me. Tell me, how have you been doing since I last saw you—?"

Then Uncle Vernon finally found his voice again. "YOU—_HOW DARE YOU DO YOUR YOU-KNOW-WHAT_ _IN THIS HOUSE!_"

Harry blinked a few times, then looked up with a small frown. "Uncle Vernon, you might want to tone down there a bit. I assure you, my hearing is perfectly normal."

Uncle Vernon's mouth opened and closed a few times, a gob-smacked expression on his face. Harry smiled pleasantly, and with a sweep of his wand, conjured tea enough for everyone. "Sit, sit—and have some tea. As I said earlier, we need to talk. Dudley, do budge up a little, will you? Your parents won't have room—you know what? Never mind." Instead, he pointed his wand at the couch—hiding a grin at Dudley's squeak—and enlarged it by a few more feet.

"I t-thought you weren't allowed to do m-mag-_you-know-what_ when you're out of school," stuttered Dudley, fear making him shake. "That p-professor from your f-freak school said you couldn't until you were seventeen. Else you'd be expelled."

Harry shrugged. "I'm not supposed to, but that doesn't matter anymore—"

"_Oho!_" snarled Uncle Vernon, a triumphant look on his face. "You've been expelled, haven't you? That's why you didn't arrive at King's Cross that bloody day with the rest of the freaks! You were kicked out—"

"Wrong on all counts, I'm afraid," cut in Harry, his tone still calm and amiable. "Now, I must insist you all sit, as I fear my news will not be too pleasant to hear—"

"Then how are you doing magic without any warning, eh? Answer that!"

Arching a brow, Harry didn't deign to answer. "Sit, I said," he spoke firmly. "Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, _sit down_."

"YOU WILL NOT COMMAND ME WITHIN MY OWN HOUSE!" roared Uncle Vernon.

" _Vernon_," consoled Aunt Petunia. "Quiet! The neighbors will hear."

Uncle Vernon took heed and hissed vehemently at Harry, "How dare you come barging in here, strutting around as though you own the bloody place, _especially_ after keeping us waiting for hours last week? You've got nerve, boy!" Uncle Vernon's face was red, and twisted with anger. "I will not tolerate your freakiness again! OUT! GET _OUT_! I WILL NOT TOLERATE THIS ANY MORE! No matter what some old crackpot fool has to say this time—"

"Said fool is dead," interrupted Harry coldly, and he flicked his wand. Uncle Vernon soared backwards as a blast of air crashed into him, and he landed heavily onto the couch, sprawling partially on Dudley. "Professor Dumbledore was murdered little more than a week ago. Now, settle down—I will not say this again."

Harry coldly gazed at his relatives and dared them to speak. Uncle Vernon was groaning as he re-oriented himself on the couch, blinking away his daze from being so abruptly tossed back. Then Aunt Petunia did something had made Harry raise an eyebrow in mild surprise.

She gasped and collapsed on the ground—her eyes wide with fear as she gaped at Harry. "No. No, he can't be."

"He is," said Harry, after a moment. "He was killed by the same curse that killed my parents."

"Not Dumbledore," she whispered fearfully. "Not your Headmaster."

Harry cocked his head at her with a puzzled frown. What did she mean by that?

"Wait—hang on," said Uncle Vernon, one hand clutching his head. He ignored Harry entirely. "What do you mean, Petunia? If that old fool is dead, that means we can finally kick the boy out without consequences—"

" _Vernon_," whispered Aunt Petunia apprehensively. "No—he can't be dead. He _mustn't_ be."

"Why do you care, Petunia?" asked Uncle Vernon, puzzlement clear on his face.

"Dumbledore," said Aunt Petunia weakly. "I've heard talk from my sister and her friends. Her freak friends. They say he's the most powerful freak alive. That he is the only one that mad Lord-freak of theirs feared. But if he's_ dead_…."

_Ah_, thought Harry. Aunt Petunia _did_ understand the gravity of the situation. He spoke at last, gently and calmly, "You understand now, Aunt Petunia, a little bit. But only a bit. Imagine for a moment, Uncle Vernon—as it appears you have yet to comprehend the severity and magnitude of the situation—that we were back in the times of World War II, and our Prime Minister Winston Churchill was assassinated on the eve of Hitler's invasion of Great Britain. Imagine the panic, the utter fear and terror that would grip this nation. That imagery, my dear uncle, is what is now tearing the wizarding world apart. Our Winston Churchill, Albus Dumbledore, has been murdered by our Hitler's forces—Lord Voldemort's Death Eaters. Perhaps you can see now what his death will mean."

Harry paused, and studied the faces of his relatives. Dudley seemed not to understand exactly his analogy, but it appeared he knew Harry was talking about a serious situation from how his parents were behaving. Aunt Petunia, on the other hand, was pale and shaky, breathing unsteadily from where she sat on the floor. And Uncle Vernon, Harry saw with mild amusement, seemed unwilling to believe; yet there was a look of wonderment and reluctant contemplation in his eyes. It was enough.

Harry nodded, satisfied with what he saw. "Now, perhaps, you will all be willing to sit and take tea so we can talk." He gestured and three identical cups of tea rose and levitated near the three, the last of whom had finally gingerly situated herself in front of him on the couch. He smiled pleasantly. "Excellent. Very well, then. I will attempt to keep this discussion short. As I've said before, the wizarding world is nearly at open war, and it is bleeding into the Muggle—the non-wizarding—world as well. I'm certain you've all noticed the sudden mounting death tolls and bizarre accidents, yes?" Aunt Petunia nodded. "Yes, that is Lord Voldemort at work."

"Hang on, boy," growled Uncle Vernon. "Why aren't you freaks stopping him, then? I know you have a government—what're they doing?"

"At the moment?" said Harry. "Nothing. Our Minister Scrimgeour is a fool, no matter how battle-hardened." He sighed. "You need to understand, Uncle Vernon, that Lord Voldemort is the most powerful wizard alive now—well, perhaps." He frowned suddenly as a thought came to him. Was the Dark Lord really the most powerful wizard now that Dumbledore was dead?

He continued absentmindedly, "We have long called him the Dark Lord, for he has risen before and waged war before he was brought down for thirteen years. And believe me, he was very close to achieving victory back then—how much closer to his goals would he get this time?" Dumbledore had believed that Harry was the more powerful, for some odd reason, and Harry honestly did not know what to believe. Could it be he was more powerful than Lord Voldemort?

"How was he stopped?" asked Aunt Petunia. "I—the letter from Dumbledore only said the war had ended, and that m-my sister was dead."

Harry smiled bitterly. "Your sister stopped him, Aunt Petunia. My mother died to save me, invoking an ancient magical protection. That 'filthy sister' of yours saved not only the wizarding world, but also _yours_."

Aunt Petunia sat back, her eyes fluttering to a close—but he saw a glimpse of pain and tears before she turned away.

"But we are deviating from the whole point of my visit—" Uncle Vernon perked up at hearing that Harry would only be _visiting_, and Harry smiled amusedly "—yes, I am only visiting briefly, Uncle Vernon. Now, no need to look so happy." Harry chuckled, amused at the darkening look on his uncle's face. "So, why have I come here? Yes. Because of my mother's sacrifice, Lord Voldemort was vanquished for thirteen years—but as you well know, he's back now. And he's out for revenge." He gazed at the three Dursleys meaningfully.

Dudley's eyes widened with terror as it clicked in his mind. "Us?" he squeaked in a high voice. "He's after us?" Aunt Petunia gasped and Uncle Vernon's fist clenched tightly.

Harry nodded. "Specifically me, but as you're related to me—you can safely assume he's after you as well."

The Dursleys looked absolutely terrified and Harry had to take pity on them. "That's why you need to pack up and leave."

_Wait for it_, thought Harry.

"WHAT?"

_Bingo_.

Harry gave Uncle Vernon a stern look when his uncle opened his mouth, most likely preparing to roar and bellow as he always did, and spoke coldly, "You _will_ pack up and leave, unless you want to see your family dead. The only reason Lord Voldemort had never managed to cross into this house—or why any of his Death Eaters weren't able to track you down—was because of the blood wards created through the link in Aunt Petunia's and my blood. You know that protection will end on the thirty-first of July, of course. And once the blood wards expire, you will open for targeting—do you really want to test yourself against trained wizards and witches?"

The Dursleys did not speak.

"I thought so," said Harry pleasantly. "Now, when you leave, tell no one. Leave for someplace far from here—out of Britain, if possible. Believe me, when the war really gets going, you do not want to be around. Is this all clear?"

The Dursleys did not speak.

Harry sighed. "Well, then, I'll be leaving now. You have until the thirty-first of July—and frankly, I could care less whether you heed my advice or not. Honestly, I have to admit I debated on whether I should warn you at all. For all that you raised me and gave me shelter, I am appalled now to think of the abuse you put me through. Be very glad, Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, that I am not vindictive in nature. Be thankful that I have more on my plate, more important things to deal with, than you."

Standing up tall, Harry held the Cup of Hufflepuff in one hand and his wand in the other, and said after a short moment of studying his relatives, "I believe this will be that last we ever see of each other, my dear relatives. It's fitting that our parting should come at the eve of the second war, when our meeting had come at the end of the first. Well, then. Good bye, everyone. I hope that we never cross paths again." With a final courteous nod, he turned and left the living room, then out the front door.

Behind him, the Dursleys were still slack-jawed from the amount of information Harry had just thrown in their faces. Behind him, the Dursleys were beginning to realise the trouble they were in. It was not five minutes after Harry had Disapparated that they burst into action, packing up what they could in order to run from the impending second war of Lord Voldemort.

And as for Harry, he left without ever turning back. He left without a single shred of remorse, grief, or regret. He had returned for the last time, he had warned the Dursleys, and now his final connection to them was severed. His conscience was satisfied.

But he did, as he disappeared once and for all from number four Privet Drive, wish them the best of luck.

* * *

It was a little past noon when Harry finally tugged off his clothes and was able to relax in a bath; something he had been unable to do for nearly a week now. He was in a room at the City Inn Westminster, a Muggle four-star deluxe hotel situated in London. 

He had Apparated directly within the lobby restroom that Dumbledore had once used and had quickly transfigured himself into clothes more suitable for the occasion. It had only taken several minutes to get papers filled out and signed before he had been able to get one of their extremely overpriced suites. Of course, there had been a rather tricky situation to deal with when he had been asked for a credit card.

"We accept Mastercard, Visa, and American Express, Mr. Stones," the receptionist had said helpfully, in a false cheery voice, when Harry had hesitated for a moment. Mr. Stones was a name he had randomly chosen.

Frowning slightly, he had been forced to lean over and whisper a spell that had made her eyes glaze over. "What? But I've already given you all my details!"

She had blinked, then shaken her head. "Ah, yes. That's right. I'm sorry, Mr. Stones," she had replied with a knit in her brow as she had looked at the computer records. "There must be a problem with the computer database—the information isn't showing up on-screen. Er, please wait a moment, sir. I'll just go get the manager to sort this out—"

"Ah," Harry had said calmly, thinking quickly. "A moment, if you please. Would it suffice if I give you my card again?"

The receptionist had looked up at him hopefully. "Yes, that would be more than welcome."

He had reached into his pocket and pulled out a blank card that he had just conjured—then cast another spell when she had taken it.

The woman had peered at the card with glazed eyes, then nodded, and began typing into her computer—the spell had brought up the memory of the most recent credit card that had passed through her hands.

Everything had gone smoothly after that. As he had had no baggage with him except for the Special Services trophy, he had quickly gone to his suite—which, while not the best suite Dumbledore had ever had, let alone Harry himself had ever had, it sufficed for the moment.

And so it came to be that the first thing Harry did was to turn on the water in the spacious bathroom within the suite and jumped in when the temperature was just right, desiring a long bath.

_Ah_, he thought pleasantly. _Perfect after a long week's work, I think_.

It was then that a thought entered his mind: where were his trunk and his belongings? What did Tonks do with it after she had impersonated him?

That he would have to find out soon, he decided. For now, he would be forced to wear his old clothes. Magic would handle all the cleaning, and transfiguring them into more comfortable attire would be no problem. However, that did not mean he didn't desire to have new, fresh clothing. It was psychological, he knew, since, at least physically, a newly transfigured garment was no different from an altogether new pair—but the mind was a fickle thing.

As he relaxed in the tub, he began to, at last, do nothing but think. And he had a lot to think about.

Lord Voldemort. Six Horcruxes. The diary and ring, both of which were destroyed; the locket, the cup, and Nagini, all still out there, one of which he knew where to locate; the Horcrux trophy in his possession, which he had yet to destroy; and finally the unknown one, perhaps something of Gryffindor or Ravenclaw, or something else completely.

_Tom Riddle will insist on making this hard, won't he?_ thought Harry with a sigh. _Hopefully he won't ever find out that I'm destroying his Horcruxes, else he might create new ones. _That had to be prevented at all costs. It was a rather disturbing thought.

So no telling anyone, Harry knew. He had to keep the knowledge of his enemy's weakness under the deepest wraps. He now wished he hadn't told Hermione or Ron—for, though they were both absolutely trustworthy, they weren't exactly in the position nor had the skills to defend what they knew if anyone came asking. After all, a few drops of Veritaserum would have anyone spilling their secrets.

And then there were Dumbledore's plans to consider. The Headmaster had spent most of the past year searching for hints and clues to the Horcruxes, believing they were the key to victory. But he had also been laying down foundations for a firmer front to be put up against Lord Voldemort—only a few, and not developed properly since Dumbledore had been so busy chasing Horcruxes. Dumbledore's preoccupation had cost him much, but there were still a few roots left that Harry could take advantage of.

The fact that Harry did not have the same authority as Dumbledore had once possessed was not quite as troubling as it was at first glance, for Harry had in his hands a different kind of power—the power of a saviour. He was the Chosen One—or at least, rumoured to be. That was his strength and power. And he would have to use it, to defeat Lord Volde—

_THUNK._

Without thought, Harry leaped out of the bathtub, a swish of his wand drying him instantly. The bathroom door slammed open as he calmly but swiftly strode out, belatedly flicking his wand to conjure robes to cover him, holding his wand out before him in a defensive position—

But stopped and rolled his eyes when he saw what had made the noise.

It was an owl, dazed and struggling to keep adrift. Harry couldn't help but chuckle. The owl had obviously crashed into the window while trying to fly in.

He slid the window open and the once-regal-looking owl heaved in, glaring at him ferociously. With an indignant squawk, the owl ruffled its feathers and held out the tied letter irately.

Harry recognised the seal. The letter was from the Ministry of Magic. The moment he released the owl, the bird screeched harshly once more at him, before flying out the open window.

With an amused shake of his head, he turned his attention to the letter.

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_It has come to our attention that you have performed a multitude of spells—including Apparition without license—at twenty-seven minutes past two this afternoon in a Muggle-inhabited area and in the presence of several Muggles. This is a severe breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. _

_As it has yet to be announced to the public that Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will remain open for schooling beginning the first of September, the Improper Use of Magic Office will not be calling on your expulsion from the school as you may not have been aware of the consequences that might have been attributed to your offences. _

_However, the Office has reached the decision that disciplinary action must take place, as this has been a rather repetitive offense committed by your person. Thus, this most recent breach has resulted in a 10-day suspension from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, to begin from the first of September to the eleventh. You will be permitted to take the Hogwarts Express to Hogsmeade Village Station on the first of September; however, you will not be allowed onto the school grounds until your suspension period has expired. _

_We regret to inform you, furthermore, that your unlicensed Apparition to Privet Drive is a serious legal offense under the International Confederation of Warlocks' Laws Concerning the Security and Safety of Apparition. Your unlawful act is a direct violation of the Laws of Apparition, and has resulted in a disciplinary hearing wherein a suitable penalty will be decided. Your presence is thus required at the Ministry of Magic at 11 a.m. on the sixth of July. _

_Yours sincerely, _

_Mafalda Hopkirk _  
_Improper Use of Magic Office _  
_Ministry of Magic_

He blinked, then chuckled. Suspension, when he wasn't even returning to Hogwarts? A hearing at the Ministry? How… amusing! He chuckled some more.

Why did the owl arrive so late, though? he wondered after a moment. It had been nearly thirty minutes since he had left Privet Drive—then he knew. The owl had most likely flown directly to number four—but then had been forced to wheel around when Harry had Apparated. That had most likely slowed the owl down.

Then _another_ owl soared in through the window, interrupting his thoughts.

_Dear Harry,_ it began in a neat writing. The letter was written on expensive stationery, soft yet firm under his hands. He didn't recognise the handwriting, but a quick glance at the signature at the bottom of the letter revealed who it was.

It was from Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic.

_I have just recently been informed of your severe breaches of the Decree of Reasonable Restriction of Underage Wizardy and also of your upcoming disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic. _

_The consequences, I have heard, are that you would be suspended from Hogwarts for ten days and that at your hearing you would be further penalised quite heavily—and I myself have heard whispers from various members of the Wizengamot that your repeated offence will be, they believe, needed to be dealt with harshly. For such rumours to reach my ears concerned me greatly, Harry, and I have thus taken it upon myself to warn you to be wary. _

_I know you and I have not quite seen eye-to-eye in recent matters—yet I believe that we can achieve a working relationship if we were to both relent and compromise. After all, our real conflict is not with each other, but with the Dark Lord, and for us to quarrel between ourselves would be inexcusable in the face of these troubling times. _

_And so, as a gesture of goodwill, I am willing to do what I can to rid you of such trivialities as what the Improper Use of Magic Office wishes to restrict you with. I would like to, as an offering of peace between you and I, aid you in whatever way I can—and am in fact willing to lift the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Magic for you, if only you ask. _

_If you decide to accept this offering, this gesture of peace, and take my hand, I promise to do all that I can to rid you of all these troublesome details. _

_I would like to arrange a meeting with you, Harry, if you are willing to receive my help and my token of alliance. I will be keeping the first of July, from ten o'clock to eleven in the morning, open in my schedule. Feel free to drop in and discuss in more detail what such an alliance could mean for you. _

_Accept my hand, Harry, for there is much I can do for you. And in fact, I have just received word from a senior member of the Wizengamot that the word "expulsion" has been whispered in relation to your upcoming hearing. _

_I can promise to keep you safe from these vultures. Think on it, Harry, and join me on the first of July if you desire to forge a new relationship between myself and you, between the Ministry of Magic and the Boy Who Lived, and between the wizarding world and their Chosen One. _

_Yours truly, _

_Rufus Scrimgeour _

Harry arched a brow. Oh? Indeed?

Scrimgeour had just pulled a rather often-used political ploy—to threaten someone through another, then to offer a lifeline. Usually, it would work. Usually, that someone would be desperate enough to seize the lifeline with both hands and be willing to do whatever was asked.

And usually, that someone was not Harry Potter, with Dumbledore's experience and knowledge and wisdom.

_This will be entertaining_, he thought amusedly. The man had even left off his titles in order to emphasise his human-ness, and to dispel any sense of distance between himself and Harry. It made the teen want to snort derisively.

Then two _more_ owls flew in through the open window, making Harry wonder if the world had, all of a sudden, decided to bombard him with owls. He would hardly be surprised if more mail came from Ron or Hermione, or even Luna, Ginny, and Neville altogether by looking at how many owls had just flown by from the moment he had arrived at the hotel.

He quickly untied both and one flew away quickly, but the tawny brown ruffled her feathers and remained. This one wanted a reply, then.

He glanced quickly at the envelopes: one bore the official seal of Hogwarts.

He opened the Hogwarts letter first.

_Dear Mr. Potter, _

_It is to our pleasure that we announce that Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will open on the first of September to offer another year of schooling and education for young, budding wizards and witches. The decision to maintain opening of Hogwarts School came by a majority vote from the Board of Governors several days ago, and the new school year will begin under the administration of interim Headmistress Professor Minerva McGonagall. _

_List of supplies and equipment needed for this coming school year will be sent out at a later time. _

_Please be advised, also, that the Ministry of Magic is currently looking into offering Ordinary Wizarding Levels (O.W.L) and Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests (N.E.W.T) for those entering their sixth year at Hogwarts and to those who graduated without assessment of their education respectively. The tentative date for administering the examinations is the fourteenth of August. Rest assured that transportation to and from Hogwarts will be facilitated by the Hogwarts Express on whatever day is confirmed. The duration of the examination is at this moment expected to be equivalent to previous years—that is to say, a four-day period. _

_Also, for all years with the exception of those aforementioned, we regret to inform you that end-of-year examinations will be waived in view of the tragic event that took place at the end of the second term, which had caused the two-week early closure of Hogwarts School. _

_Finally, interim Headmistress McGonagall has allowed for a team of Ministry Aurors to take up residence within the grounds of Hogwarts, though not within the castle itself, for protection against You-Know-Who's forces. _

_We consider your security as being of the utmost importance and will strive to maintain an environment both friendly to learning and safe from intrusions. _

_Thank you for your time. The term starts on the first of September. _

_With regards, _

_Professor Aurora Sinistra _  
_Interim Deputy Headmistress _

Harry frowned. He wasn't returning to Hogwarts and he had told the Headmistress the same. Did she perhaps forget to exclude him from the list of students? Well, no matter. He wasn't retuning anyway. Besides, he had nothing left to learn—and in all actuality, could probably teach a course himself. Dumbledore had been a master of Transfiguration and Alchemy, true—that didn't mean he was ignorant of the other magical arts. He was more than excellent in Defence Against the Dark Arts and Charms, and was rather talented with Arithmancy.

Ah. And Professor Sinistra had taken up the position of Deputy Headmistress. She would do the job well, Harry knew. He personally would have preferred Filius Flitwick to take the position—but Professor McGonagall was the Headmistress now, not him. He no longer had much say, if any.

The last letter was the shortest of all—it was from Professor McGonagall.

_Harry— _

_There will be a meeting of the old crowd in the morning two days from now at my new office. Your friends, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger, as well as Mr. Longbottom, have also been invited. It is my decision to allow them to join the old crowd, for they have experience enough with dealing with arduous situations. I hope that you do not disagree. _

_Please be advised that a mutual friend of ours, a rather paranoid man, came and asked me some rather revealing questions about your recent behavior. I have given him no answers. I felt it best not to tempt fate by allowing one more person to know your secret. I expect you will understand my decision for doing so and hope to have your approval in this. _

_Finally, I would also like to extend to you an invitation to come to the meeting, as well as join us in our efforts. I know not what went on between you and our former Headmaster, but I will do the best I can to include you in the activities of the old crowd. Not to mention, I believe the utilisation of your newfound abilities may be exploited to the greatest degree when supported by the old crowd. _

_I shall expect to see you there, then. Please reply soon. _

_—Minerva _

Harry quickly scribbled a note on the back, assuring her that he agreed with her every decision, and that he would be there the day following tomorrow, and sent it off with the owl.

Once the owl was out of sight, he sat on the bed. So much was happening, so fast. It was as though he was in the middle of a snowball, gathering speed and growing in size as he sped and rolled faster and faster down a hillside.

The letters had brought several pieces of news that were, even now, beginning to click within his mind. He would have to deal with Scrimgeour and the Ministry in several days—and would need to plan for that. He would be facing the Order two days from now and would have to deal with his friends. And he would need to begin to unravel the secrets behind the Horcrux trophy and find a way to destroy it.

He had a lot of work cut out for him.

But the letters had also alerted him to a fact that he had—even just thirty minutes ago—dismissed as a low priority: finding a permanent residence for himself.

No. The various owls had taught him just now that he was very much unprotected at the moment. He would need to find a protected residence soon.

So, with that thought, Harry drifted off into an afternoon nap. He would go looking for a house as soon as he woke.

* * *

"A pleasure doing business," said Harry pleasantly, shaking hands with the owner of the flat he had just purchased. He had checked out the back pages of the newspaper to look for an open flat and found several, examined them all, before finally settling on one he thought would be the most easily hidden through magic. It had only taken hours afterwards to finalise the deal. 

In London, apparently, money spoke. It spoke loudly. And Harry had quite a bit of it—especially when he had his wand with him.

"No, no," assured the other man, a wide grin slipping onto his face every now and then, though he fought earnestly to keep his face professional. He seemed positively delighted at having just earned several million pounds—Harry had given him a large tip to have things settled quickly. The expected three-day duration had shortened significantly afterwards to only a few hours. "The pleasure's all mine, sir!"

"Indeed," Harry replied calmly. "Well, then. I find myself desiring to move in immediately—you _have_ arranged matters so that I can, I understand?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Stones," the other man said eagerly. "Everything is settled. In fact, the moment I'm gone, this residence is legally yours. You have a set of keys and copies of the forms—everything is done."

Harry felt like hitting the man on the head. Why couldn't he take the hint and _leave_? Harry forced a calm smile on his face. "Very well. Shall I see you out, then?"

"Oh," said the owner, going wide-eyed. "_Oh_. Yes! Of course! How very silly of me! Yes, yes, immediately!" The man babbled the whole way to the door, before Harry finally shut the door in his face.

_How tiresome!_ he thought, exasperated. The excitable nature of the man had been amusing and entertaining at first—but even _Dumbledore_ would have had his limits of patience tested today.

He turned and scanned his new residence. It was a fairly large flat, already filled with furniture that had come with the house—well, technically it wasn't quite supposed to, but he had tipped the former owner enough until he had relented.

All in all, it was satisfactory. The floor was carpeted with a soft, expensive material. The flat was the epitome of modern-day elegance, with smoothened edges and sleek metal. The huge bed looked exceedingly comfortable, the bathroom was large and spacious, and everything was brand-new.

Perfect.

Harry ambled to the front door and exited, casting a Muggle-repelling ward as he carefully closed the door to his flat. It would not do to have Muggles witness what he was about to do. He took a deep breath to calm his mind, then pointed his wand to where he thought was the center of his one-floor flat. Now for the warding.

He directed his wand to where he had carefully estimated were the four farthest corners of the flat, pointing at them one after the other, then intoned calmly—"_Fidelius_."

Quite opposite to what most people thought, the number of words a spell required didn't in any way reveal the strength of the spell. It was quite a common misconception that the most ancient and powerful of spells required memorisation of long chants in languages dead to the modern world, and that relatively simple incantations meant a spell was weak or useless—but this was quite far from the truth. Apart from a few anomalies, such as the _Memoria Exsisto_, the majority of the greatest, mightiest, and formidable spells were in fact only one word long—perhaps two.

For—as any great wizard or witch would know—it was not the words that gave power to a spell, but rather the intent and the will and the focus of the individual casting it. The strongest of spells were, therefore, _all _will and _all_ focus, and most importantly, _all _intent. The incantation only gave someone a direction.

Besides, Dumbledore had known a few spells that were _utterly_ worthless in nature—after all, who wanted to cast a thirteen-syllable incantation to levitate an orange-coloured broomstick, when a simple _Wingardium Leviosa_ would do the trick?

Well, direction was all Dumbledore had needed; that was all Harry now needed.

Magic in a swathe of power, blazing blue in colour, swung around the four corners of the flat and a veil-like spread of the Fidelius wrapped sheets around the residence—

Then drew tightly together—_and the flat shrunk_.

It was as though Harry was standing before a swirling twister as the view of the front door and the flat fizzled away, and blue light gathered into an increasingly opaque wall of magic—

Then the flat disappeared. The walls next to the front entrance drew together to form a seamless barrier, hiding any indication of there ever being a residence behind it.

A small blue sphere floated at the tip of Harry's wand, which he had kept steadily pointing at his flat. Carefully he turned his wand and gently nudged the sphere into his forehead—closing his eyes when the light of the blue magical sphere became too great—then sighed as knowledge of his flat, the location, returned to him. He was now the Secret-Keeper.

The moment he felt the knowledge secure in his mind, he opened his eyes to find the wall parting before him in a dizzying manner, and his flat appear once more.

He grinned and entered. He had a home, now, and it was secure—

Red and gold fire burst before him and a phoenix materialised—it was Fawkes.

"Fawkes," said Harry, a touch surprised. The last time he had seen Fawkes had been during Dumbledore's funeral. "What are you doing here?"

The bird cooed softly as he landed on Harry's shoulder, and images began appearing in the teen's mind in answer to his question. Fawkes had soared around the world, crying the whole while with sorrow for the death of his master, and had at last returned from his flight of Remorse. He had given the greatest honour a phoenix could bestow to a beloved master.

"Thank you," whispered Harry, his voice choked with emotion. He knew, through Dumbledore's memories, what the flight entailed. For a phoenix to cry so much and shed priceless tears that would fall into the oceans and lands would have weakened him greatly, and would bring the bird nearer to its Burning Day—and it was such a _waste_. And so phoenixes rarely, if ever, performed this act. For Fawkes to have done so was… phenomenal.

But, then again, it wasn't _completely_ a waste. After all, the tears would generate fresh growth for the living, would heal the lucky person it landed on, and would ultimately mark the passing of the master with new existence. It was indeed a very great honour. "Professor Dumbledore would have cherished this greatly." He spoke again after a moment, the awe still affecting him. "_Thank you_."

Fawkes sang again, a soothing noise to Harry's ears, and another image entered his mind.

It was Fawkes burning as death claimed him, only to be reborn from his ashes—and Harry felt the conveyance of the time soon coming.

"I understand," said Harry quietly. Come to think of it, Fawkes did have a brown hue to his usually pristine red feathers. Harry drew his wand and conjured a stand for the phoenix. "It's not much, but it'll do for now. I'll unpack the one from the office soon. Will you be all right, Fawkes? You must be exhausted from the flight."

The bird trilled gently. He would be all right, once he had his Burning.

"I'm glad you're back, though," said Harry as he tenderly lifted the bird to the stand he had just conjured. "We've got a lot of work to do—and I know Dumbledore wouldn't have had managed half of what he had if he hadn't had you."

Fawkes warbled in agreement, then tucked his head and, by all appearances, went to sleep.

_Yes_, thought Harry as he turned to survey his new home again. _Things are definitely working out._

He pointed his wand to his pocket and magically drew out the many crates full of Dumbledore's things, and set out to carefully unpack them.

Tomorrow, the fun would begin.

* * *

**_To be continued…._**

**_Part III: _Dance of Life** _will be updated soon. But reviews really encourage me to write! So take the hint and _review!_ A simple, "Wonderful!" or a "Love it!" will do! Even simple messages like that inspire authors to write more! _

* * *

**Ending Notes:**

Another part. Thankfully, contest deadline's been moved down two weeks. I have a few more scenes to write before I'm done. My beta has the next part in the works. Honestly, I think I actually might finish it!

Read the "_To be continued…."_ section for the date of the next upload. Happy **_reviewing!_**

Comments always welcome.

_-- liath_

! Updated: 9.04.06 !


	4. PartIII: Dance of Life

* * *

**_Part Three: _Dance of Life**

_by Taliath_

* * *

Harry smiled lightly in amusement. 

"—WILL NOT BE IN THE ORDER!" shouted Mrs. Weasley. She visibly tried to calm herself, her breathing harsh with the effort. "_No_. I _will not_ hear of it!"

Ron opened his mouth. "But, Mum—"

She turned to glare at him with a most ferocious expression. He withered before her. "_No 'but's, young man!_ Oh no, dear, you won't! And that goes for Hermione and Neville—" Neville seemed to shrink a little at Mrs. Weasley's mention of him, but Hermione attempted in vain to match the woman's glare "—as well! _How_ could you even _suggest_ such a thing, Professor?"

Harry had arrived just moments after Professor McGonagall had informed Mrs. Weasley as to why Ron, Neville, and Hermione had been invited to the Order meeting—after the interim Headmistress had revealed to the mother of seven that they would be inducted as members of the Order of the Phoenix. It was very apparent that Mrs. Weasley was greatly against the idea.

"Mrs. Weasley," said Hermione, struggling very evidently to keep her tone from becoming rude. "I know you care a lot about us—but you're not my mum, and she's already given me permission—"

"Oh, _nonsense_, darling," said Mrs. Weasley forcefully. "You could hardly hope your Muggle parents would know what kind of dangerous things you'd be getting into! No, no—I don't mean to offend you, dear—but you must see my point! You'd best listen to me."

"Or," interrupted Harry smoothly as he stepped through the door into the Headmistress's office, "perhaps we could listen to what Professor McGonagall has to say?" He smiled graciously at the astonished looks on many Order members' faces and gave a small nod to the interim Headmistress. It seemed everyone had gathered already and had been entertaining themselves with watching Mrs. Weasley before he had interrupted. Harry couldn't help but feel amused.

It appeared that without Dumbledore's furniture and furnishings, the office was just large enough to accommodate the remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix—and that was with everyone standing fairly comfortably, for there were no seats available as of yet.

"Well, no need for everyone to be standing so," said Harry calmly into the silence. "Allow me." He drew his wand and waved it easily, and couches appeared with soft popping noises under the members' legs, tripping them and forcing them to sit down. He permitted a small smile of amusement to show on his face at their surprise—their facial expressions were so delightfully entertaining. Only Alastor Moody kept a stony face, though Harry thought he could detect a sense of suspicion and wariness about the man, as the Auror stared at him. Moody was obviously still brooding over the other day.

"Now that we're all comfortable," he said lightly, "let's continue the earlier discussion, shall we? I believe it's Professor McGonagall's turn to speak." He gently lowered himself onto his own seat and looked attentively at the professor.

Professor McGonagall's lips were twitching slightly, though she managed to control it before speaking, and she said evenly, "Thank you, Mr. Potter. Now, Molly, I understand that you are hesitant about allowing Ronald to join the Order, but you must understand that your son has been through more trials these past few years than perhaps most adults—"

"But that's exactly it, Professor!" cried Mrs. Weasley in despair. "Ron—he's only seventeen—only just of age—_not _a fighter against You-Know Who! He's a _child_—"

"I think you'll find him to disagree most astutely with that statement," observed Harry pleasantly. "But do continue what you were about to say." He ignored the looks of complete bewilderment that many were sending his way and simply continued to peer attentively at Mrs. Weasley.

Mrs. Weasley didn't seem to notice that it had been Harry who had said it, and simply looked at her son with anguish and desolation. "_Ron_, I can't lose you—so many have died already—if I lose you, any of you—" she looked around at her family "—I just can't—_I've already lost a family once!_" She let out an involuntary wail of misery and began to sob as her grief overwhelmed her. She leaned into Mr. Weasley's arms, and whispered unsteadily through her tears, "I c-can't lose my family a-again."

Everyone was silent and still, even Ron, for what could anyone say to that? Oh, it was easy to think what everyone should have done—fight on for the good cause! Never give up!—and in the realms of fantasy and fiction, everyone would have done just that. But when faced with true horror, with absolute death, and with genuine _war_—it was never so easy.

Harry spoke after another moment, his voice sad and grave. "We can all, to some degree, understand and empathise with you, Mrs. Weasley. After all, we've all at some point lost someone—or in cases such as yours and my own—more than one to this war effort. Yet, allow me to ask: will you throw their deaths away as you would something of no value? Will you throw away the ideals and the hopes and the dreams that they gave their lives for? They died, so we could fight. They sacrificed themselves so we could be free from terror and from oppression. Lord Voldemort has done us grave injury—yet will you allow such injuries to fester and worsen?"

He looked around at everyone now, meeting each of their gazes one by one, and gently shook his head. "No. No, we must clean the wounds, we must rid them of all sickness, and we _must _allow them heal—swiftly and without delay. Don't allow the deaths of your family, and your friends, cause you to stumble in this march to war, Mrs. Weasley. They died for a cause—will you now throw their sacrifices away because you refused to allow yourself to turn from the past, and look to the future?"

Harry now had everyone's absolute attention. They gazed at him, not with disbelief nor with bewilderment, but with attentive ears drinking in what he had to say. He was no longer just Harry Potter, a seventeen-year-old boy, but something much more. For though he was not altogether conscious of it, he had a commanding presence now—such as he had never possessed before—of power and of authority, of knowledge and of wisdom. He exuded the charisma and the poise of a leader, and conveyed a sense of force and capacity.

Just like Dumbledore had once asserted. And _this_ drew the attention of the Order of the Phoenix, and held it.

He continued softly. "There is a reality we must face, all of us—Dumbledore is dead, and we are gearing up to face one of the greatest battles in history." He remembered fighting in two wars now—first Grindelwald's, the second Lord Voldemort's. Both were gruesome—but this third one would be beyond inhumane. "We are at war." He paused, then repeated sadly, "We are at war—and I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat. Many have died already, and many are perhaps dying this moment—but for certainty many _will_ die in the future. We face before us a road paved with pain and suffering, a path winding much with misery and torment. I will not sugarcoat it—we are about to enter a phase in our lives consisting of many months of struggle, and of fighting, and of battles lost. _Yet we must not give up_. We must wage war with _all_ our might and _all_ our strength—for victory. Without it, there can be no survival.

"But the future, if we fight and when we win, will be one free from Lord Voldemort—can you imagine it? Think of the past thirteen years before Voldemort's resurrection, remember the peace and the happiness and the utter relief of the wizarding world during those intervening years. Now imagine that future for our children and their children—and contrast it with what you remember of the first war against Lord Voldemort, and this coming second one. Do I even have to ask which one you would prefer? It will be a long and hard road to achieve freedom—but I ask you, is it not worth fighting for?"

Mrs. Weasley was no longer crying. There was complete silence. "Never give up. Never lose hope. For even in the deepest dark, there can and will be light. Surrendering is not an option, and neither is ignoring what is before us—there _will_ soon break on Britain a storm of war. Darkness gathers even now on the horizon, Lord Voldemort consolidates his strength even as we speak, and his Death Eaters fragment what power is left in the Ministry of Magic—_yet we must not flag nor fail_."

Harry paused, and leaned forward to emphasise his next statement. "_Every_ able hand _has to_ aid in the front against this coming tempest, Mrs. Weasley; _every_ wand and _every_ wizard and _every_ witch—no matter the differences that may exists, be it size, height, color, race, or age. We _need_ to come together, to unite as one, in order to defeat our common enemy. We _must_ set aside our differences and work together for victory, in spite of all costs. And only in this way can Lord Voldemort be defeated—and _only in this way_ can the Order of the Phoenix gain any efficiency against this Dark Lord. We shall never, never, _never_ give up."

Harry gently folded his hands, and peered solemnly at the adults. "And now, will you deny what Ron, Hermione, and Neville have to offer? Will you begin the path to defeat by failing to unite? The moment of truth has come, ladies and gentlemen. It's now, right here, at this moment, that the fate of our future resides. Will you deny them their right to fight?" He leaned back slowly into his posh chair and waited. He would speak no more. The decision was not in his hands.

Professor McGonagall took his lead. "An inquiry has been brought here today," she said steadily. "Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley, and Neville Longbottom are requesting membership into the Order of the Phoenix. If you are in favour of this, raise your hand—and if a consensus of the majority is not met, those requesting membership will be asked to leave, and if judged as unreliable, charmed to forget." Then she too spoke no more—but leaned back in her own seat to study the Order before her. The decision was not in her hands either.

A moment passed by, then another, before finally one hand was raised—Tonks's. She flushed red when everyone turned to gaze at her, but refused to let her hand waver.

Then another hand was raised — Remus — then another — Aberforth — Elphias — Dedalus — Hestia — then the older Weasley boys—

There was a majority consensus.

Professor McGonagall spoke after a moment, her tone conveying a sense of satisfaction. "The lesser consensus has agreed to the membership of one Hermione Granger, one Ronald Weasley, and one Neville Longbottom. As of the thirtieth of June, 1997, these three will be considered full members of the Order of the Phoenix."

Harry allowed for a small smile to show on his face. When the professor glanced in his direction, he nodded back to her—she had done well.

"Then with the induction of these three, I would also like to put the suggestion before us to allow one Harry James Potter membership into the Order of the Phoenix."

This was going to be a long Order meeting, Harry thought with an inward sigh, as many of the members looked like they were about to burst out with hundreds of questions concerning his behavior.

He silently took a deep breath and forced himself to show polite indifference as the first question was asked.

"Hang on a moment, Professor," said Bill Weasley. "I want to first know why Harry's acting like this—are you sure this is Harry Potter?"

The teen in question arched a brow at Bill's question.

Bill seemed uncomfortable, but in a patented Gryffindor manner, charged ahead. "Y-you're not acting like yourself—and doing magic that you shouldn't even be able to think about, let alone do!"

"Yeah," said Ron suspiciously. "And why didn't you answer any of our owls either? They all returned unopened!"

"I see," answered Harry, then he shrugged. "I've been busy."

"With what?" asked Hermione, her eyes narrowed. "Are you working on—you-know-what?"

_Horcruxes_, he thought dryly. Something she wasn't supposed to mention at all, let alone in a group of this size. Perhaps she thought she was being secretive, he allowed, but now it was blatantly obvious to everyone that there _was_ a secret. Harry nearly sighed, but instead smiled pleasantly, "Whatever do you mean, Hermione?" He didn't allow her to respond. "Besides, it's not really your business what I do in my spare time, is it? Surely you're not saying you have a right to know what I do every minute of my life?"

He turned back to Bill. "And yes, Bill, I'm quite certain I'm Harry Potter—else I'd have been living nearly seventeen years as a lie." He smiled gently, "I hope you aren't going to tell me that." He leaned forward. "But, that hardly matters. Right now, we're determining whether I'll be allowed into the Order or not—and I hope to make this quick. Professor McGonagall, can you please call for a vote?"

The professor did so quickly, and the majority of them raised their hands to allow Harry entry—after all, they would hardly reject him when they'd just accepted Ron, Hermione, and Neville.

Professor McGonagall quickly spoke the words of formal induction into the Order of the Phoenix, and Harry nodded cordially.

_Maybe the meeting will be short after all_, he thought. _It just might_.

Harry was very much wrong—the meeting lasted well beyond lunch.

* * *

"—concludes this meeting of the Order," said Professor McGonagall—and Harry struggled not to show how tired he was, and how happy he felt now that the meeting was over. It had been long and _very_ boring. 

He had been forced to deflect over a dozen very pointed questions, dodge several verbal traps set by Moody and a few others, and firmly cut off any attempts by either Hermione or Ron to even vaguely refer to Horcruxes. All in all, it was a very dissatisfactory meeting.

Of course, then Harry had been forced to explain the current situation with the upcoming trial as Mr. Weasley had brought it up, and had to stare coldly at anyone who tried to scold him. Finally, he had been forced to put a lid on any questions that tried to divulge what he had been doing the night of Dumbledore's death.

"Harry," said Hermione, quickly approaching him as the chairs and couches disappeared, allowing more freedom of movement. "Can we talk?" Ron moved over behind her and Neville hovered nearby, unsure if he was welcome to join their group, though this was cleared up when Professor McGonagall tactfully drew his attention away from them. Harry met her eyes briefly with a silent 'thank you.'

Knowing he would have to face them eventually, Harry jerked his head to the doorway. "Sure. Let's do it in the Room of Requirement, shall we?"

He led the way, raising a brow in a nonverbal command for silence when Hermione attempted to speak, and soon they were in the Room of Requirement.

"Harry," said Hermione the moment all three of them were comfortably seated, leaning forward with her eyes intently latched onto his. "What's going on? I don't understand why you're acting like this—"

"Tea?" asked Harry pleasantly. "I know you're probably both still full from lunch—but I hope you aren't averse to some tea and biscuits?"

Hermione blinked. Harry smiled amusedly and drew his wand, conjuring tea and biscuits on a small table that appeared between the three of them—the table was the Room's doing.

"Ah, well, now that there's food and drink, let's talk," he said. He took a small sip of the tea, then sighed audibly. "That was quite a meeting, wasn't it? The Order meeting, I mean. I have to say, I was getting rather bored in there."

Both Ron and Hermione seemed completely bewildered by his actions.

Ron burst out at last. "H-how'd you do _that?_" He waved his hand, indicating the tea and biscuits, which had floated off the table and were hovering near him and Hermione.

Harry only smiled. "We all have our secrets."

"But—that's highly advanced magic, Harry!" said Hermione, a small frown on her face. "Nonverbal conjurations, both now and in the office!—and you're not even of age to do magic during summer yet." She shook her head, a confused look in her eyes. "I just don't understand. Honestly, what's gotten into you these days? Apparating without a license, doing magic at your aunt and uncle's, and not replying to our mail—Harry, we're _your friends_. Don't push us away." Then her eyes widened. "That's what it is, isn't it? You think you're putting us in danger because we're your friends? Because if you do—"

"The thought never crossed my mind," cut in Harry amusedly. "I assure you, Hermione, that I would never push you away because of something so trivial a matter as putting you in danger. Your friendship means more to me than any Dark Lord. Besides, it would serve nothing, actually, if you think about it. You two are already known as my friends, so parting now would be of no use."

"Oh," said Hermione. Then her eyes narrowed. "Harry, I know you might feel that Professor Dumbledore's death was your fault, but it's really not. Is _that_ why you're—?"

"Remarkable," said Harry thoughtfully. "I've always been astonished at the speed of your mind." He gave her proud smile. "That's our Hermione, always thinking about a multitude of things at once, eh Ron?" He knew his eyes were twinkling now as he turned to share a look of amusement with Ron—who didn't quite respond in his bewilderment. "Why, she's just gone from accusing me of pushing the two of you away to trying to relieve me of my supposed guilt over Dumbledore's death."

Harry chuckled lightly, though not unkindly. "It's good to see you guys again, really. It's only been a little over a week—but it feels like a lifetime ago, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, it does," said Ron carefully. "Though it might not have felt so long if you answered our owls—"

"You've changed." Hermione had a quiet tone, filled with sadness. "You've changed, Harry. I just don't know if it's good or bad." She was studying him with intense brown eyes. "It probably has to do with you staying at Hogwarts last week, doesn't it? It was fairly obvious to Ron and me that it wasn't you who was on the Hogwarts Express—and besides, you briefly disappeared after at King's Cross, and we saw the Dursleys still waiting afterwards. What happened, Harry? Nine days; what could have possibly happened that changed you so much in a little over a week?"

Harry gave her a small smile in response. "You were always the smartest among us, Hermione. But you surely must realise now that nine days really isn't such a stretch of time? Lives can change in a split instant, after all. Think about it—what were we doing nine days before Dumbledore's death?" He gently shook his head. "What _can't _have possibly happened that could change us so much?"

"You didn't answer my question," said Hermione softly. "But I suppose you really can't. Like you said in the Order meeting—there's a war heading our way. 'Trust him not with your secrets, who, when left alone in your room, turns over your papers.' I'm sorry I almost mentioned the Horcruxes in the office." She looked at him sadly. "You said you would never push Ron or me away, that our friendship means something to you—"

"Yes," said Harry gently. "Our friendship is one formed over many years—no one can break a bond like that so quickly, not even Lord Voldemort."

"Friends are supposed to do things for each other if one asks, to be there when they need it," Hermione answered back. "Friendship means _trust_ and trust unconditionally. Don't you trust us—?"

"Yes, friendship does essentially mean trust," said Harry, leaning forward and looking at her intently. "And of course I trust the both of you. The question is, do _you_ trust _me_, Hermione? Do you trust me, Ron?"

"Of course we trust you too," said Ron. Hermione drew back, however, as though she knew Harry was about to pull a trap on them.

"Then will you trust me enough to do as I ask?"

"And what's that?" whispered Hermione, but Harry knew that she had already figured it out.

Harry looked at them both, one after the other, and spoke gravely. "Forget."

"What?" said Ron with a frown. Hermione paled. "What do you mean? Forget?"

"Forget about the fact that it wasn't me last week on the Hogwarts Express, about the inconsistencies in my actions," Harry paused, "and about—"

"The Horcruxes," finished Hermione shakily.

Harry nodded sadly. Hermione eyes fluttered, and a small tear trickled out. She bit her lip, visibly trying to calm herself, but finally looked up at him with resolve. She nodded.

"Wait," said Ron in confusion. "What are you guys saying? Harry? Hermione? What's going on!"

Harry didn't answer. It was now up to Hermione, he knew.

Hermione drew in a deep breath, before speaking with forced calmness, "Ron, we need to forget about the Horcruxes."

"Yeah, I heard that," snapped Ron hotly. "But what I don't get is why you're not slapping him right now. How dare you ask us this, Harry?"

"_Ron_." Hermione lightly touched his hand, drawing his glare away from Harry. "Don't you see? Us knowing is a l-liability to the war effort. Think about it, what would happen if Lord Voldemort found out we knew about the Horcruxes?" Ron didn't answer. "Nothing good. That's why we need to forget. And—and Harry's asking us to do this. We need to trust him, Ron. T-that's what friendship means, r-right?"

Ron looked at Harry, shaking his head. "You said we'd be a team, remember? The three of us together, forever. Why are you asking us to forget? You're not any better than either of us."

"It's not a matter of whose better," said Harry gently.

"Then what? What is it, Harry? You said we needed to unite! That we needed to all come together, to work together, to win! Then_ why the hell _are you asking us to leave you alone now, to forget everything,—_to bloody watch you die?_"

There was a moment of stunned silence. Harry sighed audibly. "I certainly don't intend to die, Ron. It's—like chess. There is a part each of us has to play. Mine is dealing with the Horcruxes. But, will you give that away to your opponent so quickly? I know how you play chess. You have several working strategies, all hidden behind seemingly useless moves, unknown until the last piece is in place. There may be times when it looks like you haven't a clue what you're doing, when the opponent is laughing because he thinks he has the upper hand—but I know you, Ron, and you always win _because_ you let him think he's winning."

Harry continued after a moment's pause. "This is just like it. You may not know everything—no, I can assure you that there _are_ many secrets you both do not know—you might think what I'm doing is stupid, foolhardy, and ultimately useless. You may think I haven't a clue what I'm doing, that Lord Voldemort's laughing now because he thinks he's ultimately won—but you know me, Ron, Hermione, you know me well enough to know that I wouldn't do something so stupid as that. I ask you again, and hope your answer hasn't changed in the last five minutes: _do you trust me?_"

There was a pregnant moment of stillness.

"I-I trust you, Harry," said Ron at last. "I trust you."

Harry looked at Hermione. She nodded in agreement. "We trust you."

"And will you trust me enough to forget?"

Both nodded slowly, and Harry let out a relieved sigh. "Thank you," he said gratefully.

"Will you _Obliviate_ us, then?" asked Hermione in a small voice.

Harry replied gently, "I promise it won't hurt."

She bit her lip, then slowly closed her eyes. "Now or never, I guess. I'm ready—and Harry? Good luck."

"I-I guess that's that, then," said Ron slowly. He too closed his eyes. "Whenever you're ready Harry."

"You both are the best of friends," said Harry sadly. "I'm sorry things have turned out this way. Really. Please forgive me." He pointed his wand at them.

_Just do it_, he thought.

"_Obliviate_."

* * *

The world was a tunnel of fire, red and gold blazing with tickling warmth, as Harry traveled with Fawkes. They appeared moments later with a flash of golden light in Minister Scrimgeour's office. 

There were three wizards in the office, two office aides and Scrimgeour—the office aides had terrified expressions on their faces, gaping up at him from their seats, but Minister Scrimgeour proved his worth as a battle-trained ex-Auror. Harry had to let go of Fawkes immediately, who burst into flames and disappeared, and lightly swish his wand, blocking several spells that erupted from the Minister's wand.

The man was already up and had summoned a powerful shield for himself, ready to send another volley—that is, until his eyes widened with stunned recognition. "_Potter?_"

"Good morning, Minist—" Harry began, but was cut off abruptly.

The door slammed open and two Aurors leaped in with their wands out, eyes narrowed with concentration. The first swung his wand immediately at the Minister, summoning a physical barrier around Scrimgeour, while the second threw a powerful stunner at Harry's back—

Harry casually twisted his wand, while turning nonchalantly to face the two Aurors, and slapped the spell away. The first Auror was now also facing him and both of the men drew their wands back, about to cast a fury of spells—

"Gentlemen," said Harry amusedly, "there's no reason for—"

Beams of light shot out from both wands, and Harry mentally shrugged. Well, he tried. He raised his wand and silver light flashed with a loud bang in a streak around the office, the room shaking with reverberations. There was a second flash of silver light, another roar of noise, and the office shook once more. The first flash had dispelled all the four curses the two Aurors had managed to cast, including their shields, and the second had rendered them unconscious.

Harry casually brushed off dust from his robes, smiling amiably down at the two terrified office aides, and said cheerfully, "Aurors, they do tend to think with their wands, don't they?" The two gaped at him blankly. Humming lightly, he glanced around the room, noticing that it was in quite a mess: the large desk was overturned, chairs had been blown away to pieces, and dust motes still floated slowly in the air. He also saw that the opaque barrier still separated the Minister from the rest of the world. "Ah, let's fix that, shall we?"

He waved his wand once and the barrier disappeared.

"Potter, what in the blazes?" snarled the Minister, his eyes wide as he glanced at the mess of the room and the Aurors slumped at the other side of the office. "When—how—_what is the meaning of this?_"

"Quite sorry for the mess," said Harry pleasantly, but without a hint of apology in his tone. "Your Aurors were a little jumpy with their wands, you understand. Here, allow me." He swung his wand from left to right in a wide arc, and the mess righted itself with almost an eager fashion. The Minister's desk up righted itself and wiggled back into its space, the chairs waddled over to where they had previously been, the portraits straightened, the dust cleared, and the Aurors woke.

Harry smiled down at them kindly. "I hope you aren't hurt. I did try to warn you. Ah, well, it was rather silly of you—but alas, no lasting damage has been done. You both can run along now. The Minister and I have business to attend to. Go on." The two Aurors, with baffled looks, glanced towards Scrimgeour, who nodded at them irritably.

"You may leave." Scrimgeour sat heavily onto his chair, a frown on his face. "You both as well. Get out." He spoke to his aides, who both rushed out without a single glance behind. "Now, Harry—"

"A rather poor reception, Minister," said Harry, conjuring a more comfortable seat for himself and sitting down. "I must admit I'm rather disappointed. You yourself attacked me, sir! I fear what the press might say if they ever heard." He chuckled lightly. "Not very good for your public image, I dare say."

"Mr. Potter—"

Harry arched a brow. "Are we safe to talk?"

"What?" asked Scrimgeour, his frown deepening with his irritation. "Now, see here, I'm a busy man and I'd like to get this over with—"

"You arranged for an hour's free time, I recall," said the teen, "for which I suppose I should be grateful. And believe me, sir, I wish to make this as short and as sweet as possible. Now, I'd rather this conversation not be publicised all over the Daily Prophet—" he pointed his wand at the door, locking it with a spell, "—so I hope you don't mind if I just secure this room." He swished his wand, drawing privacy wards around the office. "Ah, I'd be delighted to have some tea, thank you; I'd just had my breakfast, and tea would do wonders."

Harry allowed Minister Scrimgeour to take a moment to calm himself, the man obviously needed it, and folded his hands politely as he waited. Finally the Minister tapped a small pad at the corner of his desk, then said shortly, "Tea will arrive in just a moment."

"Excellent," replied Harry, smiling. "I would have conjured some myself, except I would have been breaking the laws restricting my use of magic, you see." He accepted a cup of tea that appeared next to him, and took a small sip. "Delightful. Now, I'm sure you will not be penalising me for the bit of magic I just performed to protect myself, surely? Yes, I thought so." He added pleasantly, "After all, if I had been charged, then I would have been forced to explain why I had to use magic to defend myself from the Minister of Magic! You've made the right choice, sir. Now, since you've set up this meeting, what do you wish to discuss with me?" He peered at the Minister attentively.

"Right, well," began Scrimgeour unsteadily, pausing to gather himself from his nearly concealed bewilderment, "I apologize for the earlier affair. I admit I was startled at your mode of travel—you entered by phoenix, correct? Yes. This office was supposed to be sealed from magical travel, you see, other than by restricted Floo."

"No worries," placated Harry, hiding a smile at the flash of irritation that sparked in the man's eyes. "I understand perfectly. You were surprised and reacted. In fact, I applaud the speed of your reaction—rather impressive, I must say."

"I do keep myself ready at every moment of the day—"

"The only problem I see with that is your vulnerability when it is night, not day—but I digress. You wished to speak to me, I recall."

Scrimgeour's eyes narrowed and his brows drew close together in a frown, before he smoothened his expression forcefully. "Well, Harry, I'm glad you've decided to take me up on my offer. There is much we can do for each other. Of course, there are little trivialities such as magical contracts—but we can discuss that later. Now, as promised, I can easily do away with your trial and any further complications that may head your way, but," the Minister paused for effect, "of course, I'm sure you're smart enough to guess, there is a—payment, of sorts—that I will require."

"Of course," agreed Harry, hiding his amusement.

"It is an interview, well, I suppose it's really a press conference," said Scrimgeour, oblivious to the arched brow of the teen before him, confident that he had Harry under his thumb. "Now, I took the liberty to call for a few representatives from various media agencies to come today in order to help you present your thoughts on how the Ministry is handling the war against You-Know-Who. They will arrive at the Ministry conference room in approximately forty minutes." The Minister shuffled through a stack of papers on his desk, before carefully removing one and handing it to Harry. "This is a basic list of things I want you to mention in your interview. It doesn't necessarily have to be in that order, but I do want you to come off sounding unrehearsed. I'm not sure how much experience you have with public speaking, but I expect you to do the best you can, is that understood? Well, then, the only thing left is for you to sign the contract. Essentially, it gives me legal rights over your public image as well as several other minor details that are hardly worth noting. Now, if you just sign there—"

"Minister Scrimgeour," cut in Harry politely, and kindly, "you go too far. You forget that I never agreed to—er—'take up your offer,' let alone sign a magically binding contract!" He chuckled. "You arranged this meeting to talk, only, of what you could offer to me and vice versa—but I never agreed to anything."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Be careful of what you are saying. I'm not sure you are aware of what you're doing—perhaps you need further convincing—"

"Hardly that, sir," said Harry amusedly. "You've made it very clear in your letter to me—oh yes, about the fact that you just recently heard the word 'expulsion' in relation to my hearing—yes, yes, I am well aware. I must thank you for that knowledge, sir." He inclined his head.

Scrimgeour stared hard at him. "What are you saying?" It came out harsh and beyond cold.

"Perhaps I spoke too ambiguously," said Harry gently. "Simply this: I have never considered seeking the shelter you so generously provided for me, and never will if the requirement is that I have to endorse the current actions of the Ministry of Magic. To be frank, I consider your administration to be a disgrace, perhaps as much as the former's."

There was a pregnant silence.

"So. So, you insist on being Dumbledore's man, through and through," snarled Scrimgeour, nearly losing all composure. "You will destroy the reputation of the Ministry in this time of war; you will destroy any remaining faith and hope that the people have in the government of magical Britain—because of what? Your childish belief that the Ministry should be able to snap its fingers and fix everything? Do you honestly think that my administration and I have done nothing to try to put up a better front against You-Know-Who?"

The Minister slammed his fist against his desk, his eyes hot with anger. "You are an _arrogant_, spoiled _boy_, Potter! While I am here trying to hold together what I can, to rise above the blizzard that is _tearing _wizarding Britain apart, and navigate through the fog of _war_, you sit there with your _condescending_ attitude and _dare to judge me?_ You are the disgrace. You, who could save us all, _you_, who could aid the Ministry in ways no one else could, _you, _who could raise the morale of the_ entire _wizarding population—you do _nothing_ but play magic tricks before Muggles.

"It is people like you that I loathe, Harry, people like _you_. You sit on your hands and watch with nothing but criticism for those who are out on the battlefield, offering no solutions but only useless and ultimately detrimental _whining_. How's this for one—_get out there and try it yourself!_ Do you seriously believe that you could do a better job than me?"

"The only problem," said Harry coldly, "is that yes, I do believe you and your administration are doing nothing. All I see before me is a growing list of casualties from attacks you have never yet managed to counter. All I see before me is half-hearted attempts by the Ministry to fool others into thinking that something is being done—_yet there is nothing_, absolutely _nothing_, you have done yet that has affected the war effort against Lord Voldemort.

"Loathe me all you want, Minister, for likewise, I loathe you. Your absolute foolishness in your pride and inability to see reason, your lack of sense and logic, your incapability to change, to accept advice, makes you the worst possible leader magical Britain could ever desire in the face of these troubling times! You cling to what you think is right and in doing so are blind to the faults in your stance. Have you ever, _ever_ taken time to think of _why_ the wizarding world has so very little hope and faith in you and your Ministry? Have you ever given thought to the fact that maybe, just maybe, _you_ are wrong?"

The Minister was glaring at Harry with fury and the teen matched him with cold anger.

There was a sudden hesitant cough from the corner of the room, and Harry turned to see that it had come from a portrait of a froglike man with a silver wig. "To Minister S-Scrimgeour," said the portrait in a weak voice. His breath hitched because of the glare sent his way by the man in question and the milder look from Harry. "Demanding an emergency conference. Kindly respond immediately. From the Prime Minister of Muggles."

"Not now," snapped Scrimgeour, his gaze returning to Harry. "Inform him that I'll deal with him later. I'm currently busy in a conference with Harry Potter, the _famous_ Boy Who Lived." The man in the portrait briefly disappeared. The Minister turned back to the teen, and said with a sneer, "Well, Harry, what now? If you never had any intention of receiving my offering, why ever did you come here today?"

"For my own entertainment," said Harry coolly. "I wished to see what silliness you'd come up with."

"I see," replied the Minister just as coldly. "Then there is nothing more to be said between us. You will continue to oppose the Ministry of Magic, the only real defence against You-Know-Who."

"That is where you are sadly mistaken. There is the Order of the Phoenix, which has done far more for this war and the defence against Lord Voldemort than you have done, and perhaps will ever do. But yes, you are correct in that unless you change your position, I shall not change my own. There is nothing more. Our business is concluded."

"Do not expect any aid from me at your trial, then. You will be facing the full Wizengamot alone."

"Excellent," said Harry, gravely. "I'm glad at least someone around here gets a fair hearing. You can't have all the members under your thumb."

The Minister's eyes tightened with anger. "Then you may leave. I will see you on the sixth at your hearing—"

The portrait in the corner of the room coughed again and Scrimgeour turned to snarl, "_What?_"

"To Mr. Harry Potter. Requesting a meeting. Kindly respond immediately. From the Prime Minister of Muggles."

"What? What is the meaning of this?" demanded Scrimgeour.

The portrait pointedly ignored the Minister's question, most likely miffed from the glare that had just recently been directed towards him, and looked questioningly at Harry. The teen in question arched a brow, before answering carefully, "Of course, immediately."

"I will see the Prime Minister now as well," the Minister said forcefully. "Inform him immediately."

The silver-wigged man left and Scrimgeour continued to scowl at the portrait, as though the froglike man had been the cause of this impromptu meeting.

"Let's not keep the Prime Minister waiting," said Harry calmly. "After you, Minister."

The man glared briefly at Harry, who met it with an amused smile, before turning to fire up the hearth.

Wondering what on earth the Prime Minister might want with him, Harry casually walked up to the fireplace and spoke the code word, which he had just picked up from Scrimgeour.

This was proving to be a most interesting day.

* * *

**_To be continued…._**

**_Part IV: _Trivialities That Hinder** _will be updated soon. But reviews really encourage me to write! So take the hint and _review!_ A simple, "Wonderful!" or a "Love it!" will do! Even simple messages like that inspire authors to write more!_

* * *

**Ending Notes:**

Deadline's long been passed and I missed it because I became very ill for about four days total. I'm still recovering, in fact, though I'm much better now.

In any case, I want to finish this fic. Two more parts. Then I'm done. And I really, really, really want to have a finished fic. So. I'm gonna work on this fic till it's done even though I won't win anything off of it. Hopefully it'll be completed soon.

Read the "_To be continued…."_ section for the date of the next upload. Happy **_reviewing!_**

Comments always welcome.

_-- liath_

! Updated: 9.27.06 !_  
_

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	5. PartIV: Under Control

* * *

**_Part Four: _Under Control**

_by Taliath_

* * *

The day got more interesting. 

Harry blinked once when he landed gracefully in the Prime Minister's office, mildly surprised.

"Do not move. You will both remain silent and still, else we will shoot you. Any movement towards your _wands_ will result in your termination."

There were five men in black suits and with guns, all of whom were standing professionally with their aims trained on Harry and Minister Scrimgeour. A sixth man had his gun pointed at Kingsley, who was currently tied up with rope and on his knees, gagged.

It was the seventh man, standing next to the Prime Minister, who had spoken. He wore a suit with a label on his suit with the words "Regnum – Defende." He had a powerful presence, easily engulfing the Prime Minister's. It was obvious from his blank face and relaxed poise that he was a dangerous man, someone who knew what he was doing.

"What is the meaning of this?" snarled Minister Scrimgeour, but Harry noticed he was keeping quite still. At this range, even magic wouldn't be able to save them from bullets. Well, at least Scrimgeour didn't have the skill necessary. "I am the Minister of Magic! I shall have you know that you are stepping onto dangerous grounds. How dare you—?"

"I am the Director-General of MI5, the Directorate of Military Intelligence Section 5," said the seventh man coldly. "If you remain calm and do what we ask, then you will go unharmed."

"Prime Minister," growled Scrimgeour furiously. "_What is the meaning of this?_"

The Prime Minister spoke at last, with a touch of weariness. "Minister, just do what he says and all will be well, I assure you—"

"Remarkable," said Harry, drawing the attention of everyone. He stared intently at the Prime Minister, locking onto his gaze. "You've managed to overpower Auror Shacklebolt and trick the both of us here. Well done, Prime Minister." He took a careful step nearer to the man and smiled amusedly when the MI5 agents jerked, aiming their guns more steadily in his direction. Harry cocked his head to the side. "Surely you wouldn't kill a sixteen year old boy, now would you?"

He took another step forward, guns following his moments, then another until he could take a calm seat into one of the chairs before the Prime Minister's desk. "Now, what's this really all about, Prime Minister? I'm sure you didn't do this for some trivial matter. What is it you wish you achieve through this—er—affair?"

The Prime Minister blinked as he looked Harry, as though unsure of what to make of the teen, but it was the Director-General who answered. "You were both brought here in order for you to attend and testify at a meeting of Cobra."

"Cobra? What utter nonsense is that?" snapped Scrimgeour.

The Director-General stared hard at the Minister. "You will do well to show some respect, _Minister_ Scrimgeour. We are the ones with the upper hand here."

"General," warned the Prime Minister. The Director-General backed down. "Cobra, for your information, stands for Cabinet Office Briefing Room A. It is our emergency council, the government's ultimate response to any major crisis—which, I'm sure you'd agree, your war is."

"And?" said Minister Scrimgeour coldly. "What is this to us?"

The Prime Minister was silent for a moment, before saying thoughtfully, "I remember when your predecessor made himself first known to me, Minister. When I had asked why _my_ predecessor hadn't informed me of your wizarding community, he had replied back, 'My dear man, would _you_ tell anyone?' And of course, I did not. I kept it a secret; through all these years, I have feared that someone would discover this secret of mine and did my best to conceal your community from my own."

The Prime Minister glared at Scrimgeour. "But no more. You have failed to contain your war and now innocent people are dying in _my_ country. So I have finally decided to act. A year ago today you came over to inform me of war in the wizarding community, and a year I have waited to hear that you've stopped this madman. I have heard nothing—and seen nothing occur. My people are _dying_, Minister, and I have done nothing. But _no more_. Thus, I have called for a meeting of Cobra, and you have been invited—perhaps not so cordially, but there was no other choice."

"Muggles," sneered Scrimgeour. "You are all alike. If we wizards couldn't stop He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, then what bloody chance do you think _you_ have?"

"Minister," Harry said disapprovingly. "No need to sound so prejudiced—however." He turned to face the other men. "There is a reason for the International Statute of Secrecy. Have you men forgotten your history? Witch trials and hunts, these have happened before when our two worlds collided. You are opening a can of worms that will be impossibly hard to shut again."

"It is a risk that I am willing to take," answered the Prime Minister coldly. "How can I stand aside and twiddle my thumbs while my world is being torn apart by yours? Rest assured, however; I do not intend to reveal magic and wizardry to everyone—only to those invited to attend Cobra, which consists of my most trusted advisors and ministers."

"You've already informed all of them?" asked Scrimgeour incredulously. "And they believed you?"

The Prime Minister smiled humourlessly. "Good heavens, no! These men you see before you are the only ones who know."

Harry nodded calmly. "Excellent," he said pleasantly. "It will make this all the more easier." Then before anyone could react, he had his wand out—

"_Wand!_" roared the Director-General instantly, swiftly grabbing the Prime Minister and tugging him under the desk. The five other men attempted to pull on the trigger of their guns—

Gold light exploded like sharp rays of sunlight, a globe of brilliant radiance filled the room—

The light vanished abruptly and there was silence. An eerie stillness.

Harry sighed and allowed his hand to drop. The six agents were bound tightly together and unconscious in the corner of the room; the Prime Minister and the Director-General were bound as well, except in their case, separately and with both still conscious.

Directing his wand absentmindedly in the direction of the six MI5 agents, he cast quick Memory Charms and easily locked away all memories concerning magic and what had just occurred. "I apologise for this Prime Minister, but I assure you that what I am doing is best for the both of us, and our two communities. I sympathise with your plight, with the pain and horror you must be going through—unable to stop the terror that Lord Voldemort is inflicting on your world. But, I cannot allow you to reveal what our world has spent centuries trying to hide."

Harry met the Prime Minister's gaze sadly. "At this present moment, I can't see what good it would bring to inform Cobra of the wizarding community. There's nothing you can do at the moment, nothing you can offer as aid to this war against the Dark Lord. I'm sorry, Prime Minister, but I must be frank—you trying to do something will only interfere with us, and ultimately will prove to be distractions rather than aid."

"You don't have a clue what kind of power we _Muggles_ have, Mr. Potter," said the Director-General coldly. "You may have your magic, but we have our science."

"Science?" burst out Scrimgeour incredulously. "What is _science_ to magic? Your bloody 'science' wouldn't last a minute against a wand! Your insolence—"

"_Minister_," said Harry, giving him a stern look. Scrimgeour sneered, but remained quiet. "Thank you. Now, Director-General." The man met his gaze, and the teen reached across and brushed through the Muggle's mind swiftly. "I see you've gleaned much information about our world from Auror Shacklebolt—your own version of truth serum, I see. Ah, yes, we cannot deny the power of science; you are correct in this." Harry's eyes widened slightly. "Oh my, now that is surprising—though not unmanageable. You're attempting to make Muggle-borns into spies."

The Director-General's eyes narrowed, before he broke eye contact abruptly. "You can read minds," he said solemnly. Harry had to give him points for his composure. The man was devoid of any facial expression that gave away his feelings. Quite impressive.

But instead, Harry remained cold and aloof—he needed to make his warnings stick. "Indeed, Director-General. I can read minds—and, and so much more." There was a subtle quality that he added to his voice, and both the Prime Minister and the Director-General found their eyes drawn to him. Harry stared hard at both of them, and allowed the full weight of his seriousness press on them. "And now, Prime Minister, Director-General, allow me to address something you have till this moment been ignorant of: you have absolutely _no _idea how powerful magic can be. Of course, your experience with magic has been severely limited: you have only met wizards such as our former and present Ministers, both fools, and Auror Shacklebolt, who while powerful in his own right is _nowhere _near the upper echelons of the wizarding world in terms of magical power—it is time to correct your view of magic and the so-called strength of your science."

Harry twirled his wand, drawing their attention to it. "With this wand, this single wand alone, I can destroy Muggle London—and nothing you can do could stop me. Would you fire your guns at me? I could create a ward that would turn every bullet into a lovely flower. Would you direct your missiles in my direction? I would've been warned long before because of my proximity wards and Disapparated instantaneously to a location hundreds of meters from where I had previously been. Would you attempt to overwhelm me with numbers alone? With two words I could kill a man—now allow me to ask, how long do you think it'll take to whisper two words over and over again to destroy a battalion of hundreds of soldiers? Not too long, sirs, not too long. All the while I would have a magical shields that would protect me from any lucky shot, dragonhide clothing to protect me from those that manage to get through the cloak—and a single wave of my wand to heal anything truly powerful enough to damage my person.

"Would you hide within your mighty structures of concrete and metal? I could Apparate through walls, I could conjure a fire so fierce it would burn water, let alone melt metal; I could send a storm so powerful it would blow your walls down, or I could transfigure cement into sand and metal into straw. I could drop the earth beneath your feet, call lightning out from the sky, summon the ocean in the middle of your city, or put your nation to sweet sleep. Would you believe your hiding would save you? I have spells that could search whomever I wanted, wherever they may be. You will have no where to hide, to shelter, to cower from my might and power." Harry leaned back into his seat and stopped twirling his wand. "I may not be able to destroy Muggle London in a single day, or even perhaps a week, but if I direct my wand and my magic to her destruction, in the end, _she will fall_."

There was a stunned moment of silence. He sighed slowly, and asked gently, "A single wand, gentlemen; what can you possibly do against a single wand?"

The Director-General suddenly met Harry's gaze with a fierce blaze burning in his eyes, and he answered slowly but with authority. "I would snap that single wand."

Harry looked at him sadly. "Oh, Director-General, but I have another, and another, and another after that." He sighed again. "This, gentlemen, is what Lord Voldemort is more than capable of. And he has not just one wand, but many under his command. You say your people are dying? That you would do anything to protect them? To defend them against this unknown power? _Sirs_, the unfortunate truth is that you cannot. You cannot. At least, not on your own. In fact, you must be thankful that what I have just detailed for you has not yet taken place.

"We are in the midst of a war of magic and power unlike anything you have ever seen nor dreamed of. A war between wizards and witches and magical creatures—and we are far from putting an end to it. If truth be told, the real war has yet to even begin."

Harry met the Prime Minister's gaze. "I'm sorry, Prime Minister. I am truly, very sorry. But at this point there is nothing you can do that will help—and anything that you do will, most likely, prove to be ultimately detrimental. I am sorry."

Harry shook his head sadly, and sighed one last time. Hopefully this made it clear to them: the war against the Dark Lord could not be won by Muggle weapons alone.

"Excellent work, Potter," said Scrimgeour suddenly, off from the side. "Yes, very good work. Now, Prime Minister, Director-General, I feel there are a few apologies that you yourselves should present before the two—" the Minister frowned, before waving his wand and releasing Kingsley from his prone position, and spelled him back to consciousness "—make that three—of us. We are waiting."

The Prime Minister raised an eyebrow and the Director-General glared coldly back. Neither gave any sign of apologising.

"Now, see here!" snarled Scrimgeour. "You lay a hand on my Auror, then attempt to terrorise the _Minister_ of Magic and the Boy Who Lived, and now will not _apologise_? I am absolutely _insulted_—"

Harry sighed, rolled his eyes, and ignored the Minister; instead moving to check on Kingsley. "Are you all right?"

"—I promise you, you will _not_ get away with this—"

Kingsley groaned and weakly shook his head. "Potter? Harry? What's going on?" He winced and gritted his teeth. "Headache."

"—I _demand_—"

Harry lightly ran his wand over the Auror's head, before gently whispering a few spells. "Does that clear the pain a little?"

"—if you do not, you can expect unpleasant retributions—"

"Yes, thank you," replied Kingsley in a slightly stronger voice. He blinked slowly, struggling to keep his focus on Harry. "What happened?"

"—add insult to injury—"

Harry gently shook his head. "Not now. I'm sure Minister Scrimgeour will be happy to fill you in later. I just wanted to make sure you were safe and uninjured. Just sit tight, okay? I'll bring Healer attention to you soon."

"—_I am the Minister of Magic!_"

When Harry turned back to the scene, he was much amused to see Scrimgeour glaring at the two stoic, still-tied-up Muggles, his wand gripped tightly in his hand and a twist in his mouth that spoke of severe distaste. His face was flushed slightly with an obvious mix of contempt, irritation, and anger. Over all, it was a delightfully entertaining scene.

"Yes, we are all aware that you are the Minister of Magic, sir," said Harry in a patronising tone, with a small amused smile. He waved his wand slightly, and released the ropes on the men. "Now, act like the adults and political leaders that you are; shake hands and apologise. Go on. We have all had a severe misunderstanding today—but I hope everything is cleared up, yes? So, go on. Shake hands, say sorry, forgive, and never forget."

No one moved a long moment, before the Prime Minister took in a deep breath, then held out a hand. "I apologise for the misunderstanding, Minister Scrimgeour, Mr. Potter, Kingsley."

Under Harry's cold glare, Scrimgeour reluctantly shook hands. "Prime Minister, I hope this never happens again."

"Excellent," said Harry. "Well, it seems we're all squared out, then. You hurt Kingsley, I hurt your agents. You forcefully gained information about the wizarding world from the Auror's mind, I took information about your Muggle world from the Director-General. And finally you both have shaken hands on it and apologised. Very well, let us all consider our misunderstandings resolved, shall we?"

When everyone present nodded, Harry spoke once more gravely. "And Prime Minister, do you understand that your best chance of surviving and riding out this war is to stay clear of Lord Voldemort?"

The Prime Minister met Harry's eyes, and gave him a long measuring look, before answering, "Allow me this one question, Mr. Potter: do _you_ believe your side will win this war?"

The teen in question didn't hesitate for a moment. "Of course, Prime Minister. It is only a question of how long it will take until victory is achieved."

"Very well, then," said the Prime Minister. "I will trust you."

"Thank you, Prime Minister. And Minister Scrimgeour, what of you?" Harry glared at him coldly. He had not forgotten the argument they had just had before Flooing here. "The Prime Minister has brought many concerns before you today—many of which echo my own: what is your response to these allegations of your administration failing to achieve any significant victory in this war? Will you attempt to rectify your mistakes?"

Four pairs of eyes—Harry's, the Prime Minister's, the Director-General's, Kingsley's—stared hard at the Minister of Magic. Scrimgeour kept up a cool façade, however.

"There is nothing to rectify, Prime Minister, Potter. My administration is doing the best it can in the face of these tragedies. But everything, I will assure all of you, is under control—"

There was a yelp of surprise, a gasp, then a shout from the corner of the room—the portrait of the silver-wigged frog-like man—roaring in panic, with terrified eyes—

"MINISTER SCRIMGEOUR! EMERGENCY! ALERT! Break-in at Floo Control Center! Foundation network stolen! _Dark Mark visible!_"

"What?" Scrimgeour stood absolutely still.

"DEATH EATER ATTACK! Aurors too late!_ FOUNDATION NETWORK STOLEN!"_

The Minister of Magic collapsed heavily onto a seat, his strength leaving him abruptly. The Prime Minister glanced around in confusion. The Director-General's eyes were narrowed. Kingsley was wide-eyed with surprise.

"All employees at Floo Center killed! Fourteen casualties! Death toll mounting! _Minister Scrimgeour, presence required immediately at the Ministry!"_

Harry gently shook his head, and sighed deeply.

"Everything is under control, Minister?"

* * *

Harry surveyed the scene before him with tightness around his mouth and a grim shadow in his eyes. Lord Voldemort had struck hard, and fast, and now the whole of magical Britain would be reeling from the strike. 

The Floo network was completely disabled. As long the Foundation network was missing, the island of Great Britain was blanked out and isolated from not only the international wizarding community, but also from each other. Now, the only methods of travel would be Apparition, Portkey, or broom—none of which were especially safe for young children, and none as secure or as reliable as the Floo.

"—not one survived," whispered a hoarse voice in disbelief.

"Too many—the Aurors tried—"

Eleven. Harry had counted carefully. Eleven employees who worked at the Floo Center were all dead, and from the looks of their location, body position, and facial expression—they were caught completely by surprise. Six witches, five wizards, ranging from young adult to elderly. The three other deaths had been from innocent bystanders inquiring at the Center about their Floo connections. Two witches, one wizard—all young.

"—why? Oh Merlin, why?"

"What the fuck is the Ministry doing? Where the bloody hell were they when the Death Eaters came?"

Harry bent over and gently closed the lifeless eyes of a dead witch. _Rest in peace_, he whispered silently to her. _I promise you, I'll bring justice to those who murdered you._

_I promise._

* * *

**To be continued….**

**Part V:Trials** _will be updated soon._

* * *

**Ending Notes:**

Sorry for my rather long, extended absence. I've been sick, overworked, worried over college apps, and a multitude of RL things that have kept me away from fanfiction.

Hmm. But a lot of that's done and over with, now, so I can work more on my fics again.

Comments always welcome.

_-- liath_

_(11.17.06)_

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